𝗕𝗘𝗬𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔 𝗔𝗨 ⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆ 𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡
Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl. mermaid!reader
all in one place — newest first
the first fic
you attempt to figure each other out
Steve tells Robin about the mermaid
you are nearly discovered
you spend a few hours in bed
Steve takes you back to the pool
you meet Dustin and Eddie
Eddie teaches you how to swear
Steve gets hurt by the pool
you ask for company
you have a hand to heart
Steve gets you some bikinis
you, Steve, and unending eye contact
you don’t understand and get upset
you give Steve an important gift
everyone tries to cheer you up
an animal outside scares you
you make a big change
Steve takes you to the mall for clothes
Steve explains ‘want’
Robin discovers your new features
you take your first bath
Steve feels you ‘purring’
you get the wrong idea about Nancy
you go klepto, to Steve’s distress
you take a bite out of Steve’s arm
you need Steve to explain real kissing
Steve gives you your kiss
there’s an intruder in the house
you hurt yourself making a bagel
Steve realises what’s missing
you wake up in an unfamiliar room
Steve’s guilty conscience creates distance
you and Hopper have a talk
you get a kiss for your headache
Steve takes you to lovers lake
vecna tried to torment will by showing him his sexuality isolating him from all his friends and he said bitch please and came out to everyone he knows just to keep vecna from holding it over him and to prove to himself that vecna doesn't know shit. you don't have to like the scene but you do have to respect how it shows will is the bravest motherfucker in this show.
Is it just me or am I one of the only people that is so happy they decided to break Jonathan and Nancy up? Stancy was forced but Jonathan and Nancy were no better together. In all of the seasons of the show Nancy has not been single for long enough to even explore her self identity outside of being a girlfriend. So happy they finally set my girl free 
need a horsecock harrington x fem!reader fic plssss
If I had the writing skills best believe I would 100% make this for you, especially after Robins sex joke. like based off the jeans in season one I believe we all knew it, season 5 just confirmed everything for me tho
james potter x reader, black!brothers! x fem!sister!reader
'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone— part 3 (extra)
synopsis: in which being a black means learning to carry a legacy you never asked for — and even after escaping its weight, your name still clings to you like a shadow. while everyone else seems to move on, you are left behind with doubt. but james, steady as ever, stands beneath the rain and reminds you that you will be loved, no matter what.
cw: chronic illness, emotional breakdowns, physical pain, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, fluff fluff fluff, tooth-rotting fluff x2, lots of reassurance. can be read as a stand-alone!!
w/c: 6.5k
a/n: based on she will be loved by maroon 5, this is probably the most adorable shit ever </3
part one part two masterlist
“You’re stiff-wristed, sweetheart. The secret’s in the swirl, not the stab.”
Her voice—Euphemia Potter’s—wraps around you like the hush of soft rain against old glass, all lilting warmth and quiet command.
She stands behind you, close but not crowding, guiding your hand with the kind of reverence you imagine one might reserve for spun sugar or wounded birds. Her fingers barely touch your wrist, feather-light, as though afraid you might shatter from the weight of anything firmer.
The frosting clings to the whisk like silk, pale pink and shimmering beneath the golden kitchen light, and you stare at it as though it might give you answers you’re too afraid to ask for.
She hums something low, a tune you don’t recognize. It drifts around the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, curling into the corners like the scent of vanilla and lemon zest.
You think she must be the kind of person who hums to flowers when she waters them, who sings lullabies to empty rooms and means it.
You wonder, distantly, if she’s always been this kind to kids with fucked up families.
You press your lips into a tight line, unsure what to do with the softness curling at the edges of this moment, and murmur without looking up, “I’m not stabbing it.”
A beat. Then laughter—low, honeyed, and bright enough to make something crack inside you.
“You’re threatening it,” she says, her grin audible in the curve of her words. “You’ve got to coax it. Love it a little.”
Love.
The word lands in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through something long frozen. You don’t know what to do with it—how to hold it, where to place it in a life that’s been stitched together with silence and survival.
So you shrug like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter, and let the whisk move in wide, uncertain circles.
You don’t look at her. You look at the frosting, at the way it smooths under your hand when you stop fighting it. At how something can come together when you let it breathe.
The kitchen is warm in a way that startles you—cozy, cluttered, too alive to be anything but real. It’s the kind of lived-in mess you’ve never learned to trust, all soft disarray and stubborn comfort.
There are crooked portraits on the walls and mismatched rugs softening the floors, and the light from the windows pours in thick and gold, like early spring is trying to wrap you in something gentle.
The whole house smells like vanilla and something older, deeper—like magic that has settled into the floorboards and refuses to leave.
You keep your sleeves rolled down despite the warmth, even as your hands stir with careful deliberation. There's flour on your knuckles and a strange tightness in your chest, like you’ve wandered into a memory that doesn’t belong to you.
From beyond the archway, chaos hums like a second heartbeat. James lets out a yelp as Sirius tackles him onto the sofa, their limbs a tangled mess of laughter and mock indignation. Cushions fly.
“He’s cheating!” James shouts, voice muffled by upholstery and betrayal.
“I’m winning,” Sirius growls, smug and breathless.
And there—just behind the couch, half in shadow, half in sunlight—stands Regulus. Still and composed, arms crossed like a barrier, eyes narrowed with the bored disdain of someone raised in rooms where no one ever raised their voice.
You glance up, and for a moment, his gaze catches yours.Something wordless passes between you, soft and sharp and impossible to name. He looks away first.
Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to yesterday. To the Potters’ den, flickering firelight painting lazy patterns across the room. You and Regulus on opposite ends of the hearth, James lounging like a spoiled cat between you, half-on, half-off the armrest.
He’d been demolishing a cupcake—frosting smeared across his cheek, crumbs dotting the fabric like confetti—when he paused, blinked, and looked at you both.
“You’ve never had one?” he repeated, like the very concept offended him.
You and Regulus had nodded in tandem, as if admitting a shared sin. Regulus looked faintly embarrassed. You hadn’t bothered.
“No cupcakes,” James had whispered, horrified. “You poor, repressed creatures.”
You’d shrugged, lifting your teacup with both hands. “We weren’t exactly allowed to eat with our hands.”
James had stared like he could see your childhood printed in bruises across your skin. “That’s it. Mum’s baking with you tomorrow, with Regulus too, if I can pry him off his high horse.”
And so here you are. In socks that don’t belong to you and an apron that does—barely—reading “Kiss the Cook” in faded embroidery. Your hands are sticky with sugar, your elbows awkwardly bent, and Euphemia Potter stands beside you, the very image of maternal grace in motion.
Every movement she makes is soft, efficient, full of something like love. She shows you how to spoon frosting into the bag, how to twist the top just so, how to guide the tip in slow, looping swirls instead of the instinctive little jabs you keep trying.
Her voice is low, her patience unshakable, but her eyes are sharp—they see too much. They had settled on you the first night with a kind of quiet knowing, like she could already feel the ache tucked behind your ribs, the weight you never speak of.
You feel strange in your own skin—tied into the apron like you’re being stitched into something unfamiliar, clutching the piping bag like it might burst between your fingers (which it might well considering how anxious you are)
It’s strange, isn’t it, how some places don’t just shelter you—they learn you. Grow around you like moss, slow and soft and impossibly gentle. The Potters’ house is like that. A space that doesn’t just exist, but exhales. Its colors are warm, its corners worn by laughter and living.
The curtains breathe in the wind like old lungs, the frames are all crooked, like no one ever bothered to make anything perfect, only meaningful.
“You doing alright, darling?” Euphemia asks softly, not looking up from the cake tin she’s buttering.
“I’m fine,” you reply, too fast. The word lands oddly in the space between you, hard-edged and out of tune with the golden hush of the kitchen.
You don’t meet her eyes. You glance toward the sitting room instead, where laughter crashes like a tide against the floorboards.
James is shouting—again. “If he strangles me, tell Mum I loved her—!”
You roll your eyes instinctively. “They’re idiots.”
“They sure are,” Euphemia agrees with a fondness that makes your chest ache. And then—she turns to you fully, flour dusted on her hands, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too knowing. The kind of gaze that only women who’ve borne grief like children know how to wear. “They’re yours too, now.”
Your hands keep moving, mechanical. The frosting in the bowl is starting to lose its shine. You swirl it once, then again yet, it still doesn’t look right.
You want to tell her something. Anything. That you don’t know what “yours” means. That you’re afraid of claiming things that feel too soft to last.
That you still brace for shouting when you drop a glass. But the words wedge themselves between your ribs, stubborn and silent. So you just nod.
There are still letters from your mother. They come like bruises—paper-thin but lingering. Sirius tears them up before you can read them, jaw tight with old fury.
James doesn’t even look. He lights them on fire with a flick of his wand and watches them curl into ash.
Once, you caught the edge of your name written in her careful script, underlined like an accusation. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t want to know. Some things are meant to be burned.
So instead, you learn to make frosting.
You’re not sure what to call what you and James have. If it’s dating, it’s the kind with missing rules and unspoken agreements. There are no labels, no promises carved in stone—but there is his hand in yours when you walk in the garden.
There is his kiss on your forehead when your dreams turn sharp. There’s his laughter echoing down the hallway as he spins you beneath the afternoon light just because it’s pretty. You lean into him more than you mean to. You laugh more than you expected to. It’s not perfect. But it’s warm.
And sometimes, when sleep slips away and grief curls against your spine like a ghost, you wake to find someone already there. Sirius, slouched in the armchair with a blanket thrown over his legs.
Or James, curled at the foot of your bed like he’s guarding you from whatever still lingers in the dark. Sometimes it’s both, sprawled like overgrown puppies, as if they heard your heartbeat change and followed it.
Just James, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering, “Hey. You’re here. That’s enough.”
And in those quiet hours, maybe it is.
Outside, the sky is still gray—the way spring always begins. Soft and threatening. Like a promise that hasn’t made up its mind. Inside, the kitchen is warm. The air is sweet with sugar and butter and the faintest trace of something old—like memory.
You’ve been standing here long enough for the light to change. The kind of morning that feels like it might last all day.
“Alright,” Euphemia says after a while, brushing her hands clean on a tea towel. “Let’s try your first one. Pick a cupcake!”
Your hand hesitates above the tray. It’s silly, maybe, but this feels like a test. You reach. Choose the one with the least cracks. The cleanest top. It’s still warm in your palm, soft around the edges.
And you think—Regulus would’ve picked this one too. The most perfect on the outside, like that could save you from whatever’s rotting underneath. Like surface beauty was ever enough to survive.
You lift the piping bag with uncertain fingers. Squeeze slowly. Your swirl ends up lopsided, a little tight at the base—more question mark than spiral.
“Not bad,” Euphemia says, smiling. “She’s got the hand of a sculptor!”
You blink. Then glance up, startled. Not just by the compliment, but by how gently it lands. Like it wasn’t meant to test or teach you, just offer you a truth.
It feels good, for a second. To be seen by someone who isn’t waiting for you to fall apart. Who gives kindness freely, without demanding anything back.
From the sitting room, Regulus calls, “Is she doing alright?”
You don’t look. “No,” you call, voice flat, automatic. “She’s surviving.”
Sirius whoops, “Like a true Black!”
And something in you eases. You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches—an almost-smile.
Because it’s true. You are surviving. You are a Black. You still move like you expect the room to collapse beneath you. You still speak like a warning. But now you’re here, in a sun-drenched kitchen, with pink frosting on your wrist and sunlight on your collarbone. Learning something new.
You stand at the edge of the kitchen now, tray in trembling hands.
The cupcakes are uneven—some leaning like they’re tired, others piped too thick with nerves you couldn’t quite still.
Euphemia stands behind you, her hand resting lightly at the small of your back.
“They look beautiful,” Euphemia says gently. Her voice is velvet, all warmth and hush and pride you don’t know how to hold.
Your eyes stay pinned to the tray in your hands — twelve cupcakes, swirled in soft pinks and lavenders, their colors uneven, the frosting imperfect.
One leans too far to the left. One has too much icing; another, not enough. They’re not neat. They’re not elegant.
You’d asked too many questions in the kitchen. Kept second-guessing yourself, measuring the sugar twice, afraid of ruining something you’d never been trusted to make.
Euphemia had only smiled, quiet and patient, as if she could hear the uncertainty in your bones.
It was supposed to be simple. Cupcakes, James had said. Something to try. Something you’ve never had before.
You hadn’t expected how much that would matter.
Now the tray is warm in your hands, and your sleeves still carry the scent of vanilla and sugar. You can’t tell if the sweetness stayed with you or if you left it all behind in the frosting bowl.
Inside the sitting room, you can hear Sirius mid-argument, half-laughing, half-shouting about something inconsequential.
Regulus leans stiffly over the arm of a chair, trying to explain something with too many syllables to James, who keeps interrupting just to make him scowl. It’s loud. Familiar. Ordinary in a way that makes your chest ache.
You’ve always watched this kind of life from a distance — the kind where people interrupt each other without fear of being punished, where laughter is constant and never cruel.
Problem is; you don’t quite know how to step into it.
“They’re waiting,” Euphemia murmurs. She steps forward and opens the door all the way, but she doesn’t push. She just rests her hand gently at the small of your back — not forceful, just present.
The tray shifts slightly in your hands as you cross the threshold. You steady it quickly, trying to school your features into something neutral. All three heads turn at once.
James rises first, his expression flickering from surprise to something quieter. He just looks at you like you’ve brought something more than sugar into the room.
And for a breath, you forget what you’re holding.
“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I made these.”
Sirius squints. “You? In a kitchen? With actual ingredients?”
You shoot him a look, but your voice doesn’t wobble this time. “Do you want one or not?”
“I’m just saying,” he says, grinning, “this could be a trap. What if they’re poisoned?”
James is already stepping forward, inspecting the cupcakes with a kind of gentle reverence. “They look brilliant.”
“They’re uneven,” you say quickly, before anyone else can. “I didn’t mix the color all the way. And I think I overfilled the third row.”
James ignores that. Picks a lavender-swirled one with a little too much icing and cradles it like it might sing. “They look so pretty, love,” he says softly. “Just like you.”
That catches you off guard. You don’t know how to carry a compliment that tender. So you don’t reply.
Regulus doesn’t speak at first. His eyes skim the tray, then flick to your face. “Which one’s yours?” he asks.
The question is simple. But it lands like a stone in water.
You hesitate. “The ugly one?”
He tilts his head. “They’re all a little ugly.”
Sirius snorts. “Which means they’re honest. I like that!”
You laugh, a breathy, uncertain sound that escapes before you can stop it.
Regulus steps forward slowly. He doesn’t reach for a cupcake. He just looks. And then, quieter this time: “Can I have yours?”
It’s such a small sentence, but it knocks something loose inside your chest.
You nod, carefully. Select the one with the uneven spiral, where the frosting pooled too fast and dipped at the edge.
He takes it from you like it’s a glass relic. And then, with a quiet kind of sincerity, he says, “Thank you.”
Sirius bites into his with theatrical flair. “Oh, hell, this is good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” you mutter.
James is already halfway through his. “I’m putting in a request for another batch. Maybe lemon next time?”
“There’s not going to be a next batch,” you say, but it’s a soft lie. One you hope someone sees through.
Regulus finally bites into his. His expression doesn’t change much, but his gaze returns to you — steady, unreadable — and then, after a pause, he murmurs, “It’s sweet.”
The laughter rises again, light and irreverent, as James starts a dramatic monologue about how cupcakes are the purest form of magic and Sirius demands to be taught immediately so he can outshine you. Regulus settles back into his seat, eyes flicking between the cupcake and you.
You set the tray down on the coffee table, then retreat a half-step as if the cupcakes might embarrass you by existing.
You’ve never made something like this before — sweet, delicate, not meant to survive a war or a dinner at the Black family table.
You don’t know how to be proud of it. You only know how to hope it isn’t a disappointment.
James doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you, then at the tray, then back at you. The silence stretches too long.
He smiles — not his usual grin, not the cocky, tilted thing he uses when he wants to charm or tease. This one is quiet, like a secret he’s sharing only with you. “It’s perfect.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t,” he agrees, stepping closer. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
You glance down, but he reaches out and gently taps the edge of your hand. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
He’s all warmth and open sky. There’s frosting at the corner of his mouth. His hair’s a mess from wrestling Sirius earlier, and his voice is steady in a way yours hasn’t been all day.
“You did something new,” he says. “You made something. You shared it. That’s brave. And I am so so proud of you, yeah baby?.”
Something catches in your chest — like a thread being pulled too tight. You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t.
He just brushes a curl from your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, and the softness in his touch undoes you more than anything he’s said.
James reaches for another cupcake and holds it out to you.
Your brows raise. “What’s that for?”
He shrugs, tilting the cupcake toward you again — an unspoken offer, gentle and insistent. “You baked them,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t even tried one.”
“I know what they taste like,” you murmur, though your eyes remain on the small swirl of frosting.
“Do you?” he asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You stood next to Mum, mixed everything, piped the frosting like an artist—” his hand gestures loosely to the tray, already missing three cakes, “—but you haven’t taken a single bite.”
James nudges it forward again, a nudge that feels like kindness disguised as teasing. “First time for everything, yeah?”
Your fingers hover, then curl slowly around the paper casing. It yields beneath your grip — soft, still warm from the kitchen heat, as if it had been waiting for your touch.
You bring it up, careful, uncertain, aware of the hush that falls across the room. You don’t meet anyone’s eyes.
You just take a breath and press your mouth to the top, just enough to taste.
The frosting melts instantly on your tongue — silky and slow, bright with vanilla and a whisper of lemon, like sunlight folded into sugar. It’s not overwhelming, not too rich.
Just… soft. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t need to be earned. The kind that offers itself freely. For a moment, your chest feels too tight for your ribs, your throat too narrow for words.
You swallow. “That’s—” Your voice falters. You blink. “Good.”
James beams. Not like someone who expected praise, but like someone who’s just watched a door open. “Just good?”
You look down at what’s left in your hand. You dip your finger gently into the frosting, curl it into a neat spiral, and pop it into your mouth.
The taste is quieter now, familiar already. But still — still — it makes you feel something that has no name.
Sirius makes a dramatic sound of protest from the sofa. “Criminal,” he declares. Regulus mutters something darkly unimpressed, but neither of them matter right now.
Because James is still watching you. Like he’s been handed something rare and breakable.
“You’re telling me,” he says softly, “you’re going to eat only the frosting?”
“It’s the best part,” you reply, licking your thumb, almost defiant.
He reaches for another cupcake, peels the paper halfway back, and takes a slow, deliberate bite of just the cake — clean, unfrosted.
He chews, thoughtful, then glances at you, the corner of his mouth curling. “Well,” he says, “we’re clearly soulmates.”
You blink. “What?”
“I hate frosting,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Always have. It's way too sweet and sticky. I'd much rather eat the cake part.”
Your brow furrows. “You’re making that up.”
“I swear on all of Gryffindor’s noble dead.” He raises a solemn hand, though his eyes are dancing. “This is fate. You eat the tops, I eat the bottoms. Every cupcake perfect, every piece devoured. Balance in all things.”
You try to glare at him. You try to keep your mouth straight. But your lips betray you, twitching at the corners. You look away, but not fast enough.
“You’re flirting again,” you say, voice too soft to sting.
“Can you blame me?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “You’re frosting-drunk. It’s adorable.”
“It’s frosting,” you reply, scoffing. “I’m not drunk.”
He tilts his head, studying you like a poem he’s trying to memorize. “Are you sure?” he says, voice a hush now. “Because I think I just fell in love all over again.”
James doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you, eyes warm, quiet, full of something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.
You feel it anyway — that impossible softness, that lightness he brings with him like a second skin. The kind of sweetness that lingers even after it’s gone.
And as you bite into the frosting, as Sirius resumes his argument and Regulus sighs into his tea, something inside you begins to settle.
Maybe sweetness doesn’t have to be earned.
The rest of the evening settles like golden syrup over the table — slow, warm, and rich with laughter. The sun filters through the windows in long amber slants, gilding the countertop where half-eaten cupcakes sit like tiny triumphs.
You’re tucked between Sirius and Regulus on the floor, knees brushing, while James sprawls at your feet, arms flung behind his head like the world’s most content boy.
He keeps glancing up at you as if he’s never seen you smile before — like he’s trying to memorize every possible angle, afraid he might blink and miss it.
Sirius is midway through some outrageous tale about a stolen broomstick and second-year mayhem. Euphemia gasps in mock horror. Fleamont peers over his glasses with a grin that threatens to tip into laughter.
Regulus groans into his palm and mutters, “You two are why she has grey hairs.”
And for a moment, you let yourself laugh.
Really laugh — not the careful, calculated chuckles you’ve grown used to offering like coins at a tollbooth. This is warm, bright, unguarded. It spills out of you without permission, lifting your shoulders and loosening something long-caged in your chest.
When James reaches for your hand, you let him take it. His fingers thread through yours, firm and certain, like a promise you almost believe.
For a little while, you let yourself believe this could be yours — this ordinary sweetness. Something with frosting and sun-drenched floors and a kitchen that always smells like cinnamon and safety.
Something not carved from pain. Not built on survival.
You go to bed that night feeling full in a way that has nothing to do with cupcakes.
—
The ache begins quietly, as it always does. A heaviness that coils at the base of your spine, patient and precise. Something about the way it settles there—like a bruise blooming behind your ribs, tender and unnoticed—makes it easy to dismiss.
You stretch your fingers. Roll your shoulders. Breathe through it like it’s nothing more than morning stiffness or a restless night’s sleep.
You tell yourself it will pass, that maybe you’ve just been sitting too long, dreaming too hard.
But two days later, it’s harder to rise.
The bed feels heavier, the light colder, and the spring air bites through the cracks in the stone like it wants to warn you of something. Still, you manage. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders and curl beside the others near the hearth.
The pain deepens when you move too quickly, or laugh without bracing for it. It hides in strange corners of your body—sharp beneath your ribs, warm and aching behind your knees, slow and stubborn in your breath.
Sometimes it steals the air right out of your lungs as you climb the stairs or reach for something just out of grasp.
But you smile through it. You always do. You bite the inside of your cheek and hold your posture like a prayer, like it might keep you whole a little longer.
You don’t want to ruin it. They’re so happy — Sirius losing at chess with theatrical flair, Fleamont snorting into his tea, Euphemia gently guiding Regulus’s hands through loops of yarn as he pretends not to care.
James tugging you into corners thick with laughter and warmth, brushing your cheek with reverence, telling you your eyes look like dusk when the world is kind.
You won’t be the shadow in their light.
So you laugh when you’re meant to. You nod at all the right moments. You stir the ache into your tea like it’s just another kind of sweetness.
You tell yourself it’s nothing — that it will pass, that it must. That you owe them this version of you, the one who is steady and soft and whole.
And when the hurt steals your voice, you simply say you’re tired. It’s easier that way. You’ve had years to perfect the script, and the silences between the lines.
You breathe through it, quiet and constant.
Because what else can you do?
You don’t cry. You just sit there, letting the rain pour over you like a second skin, not harsh but steady, familiar — not the warmth of this place, not the laughter pressed between the walls, but something older, something colder, something that remembers the echoing halls of Grimmauld Place.
The kind of silence that didn’t need a reason. The kind that stitched itself into your bones so long ago you forgot what it felt like to live without it.
You sit with the rain in your lap like it belongs to you, like the storm found you first and decided to stay.
It slides down the curve of your spine, pools in the hollow of your throat, traces your wrists like rivers returning to the sea. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch.
You’ve always known cold — cold hands, cold glances, cold corridors and colder silences — and this kind of chill feels almost merciful, soaking into you gently instead of cutting you down.
Through the glass, the fire glows soft and golden, and their laughter spills out in waves, blurred and beautiful — Sirius, all brightness and reckless limbs, draped across the couch like it was made just for him; James beside him, head thrown back, eyes shut with joy, tipping into Sirius like gravity’s favorite joke.
Their laughter is loud and unbreakable, the kind of joy that fills rooms and hearts and lifetimes.
And as you watch, you realize they are whole in ways you were never taught to be.
Near the window, Regulus leans toward Remus, long fingers brushing across an open book, nodding as Remus speaks. Their voices are low, private, thoughtful.
Regulus is in a sweater too big for him and socks with mismatched toes, the kind of domesticity you never thought would suit him.
But it does. He looks… soft. Happy, maybe. Or something close enough to it that you could believe in it if you squinted.
Even Peter, curled up near the fire, hums to himself without shame.
And you — you are the ghost at the glass. The story that doesn’t belong in this chapter.
They’ve all found something that quiets the noise in their heads. Sirius with his rebellion. Regulus with his books. James with his heart wide open.
You want to reach for them — you do — but your hands feel wrong, too heavy, too worn, made of sharp edges and sore joints and skin that’s forgotten how to feel safe.
You shift, just barely, and pain flares up your spine like a slow-lit match, bright and hot and unmistakably alive.
Your bones ache as though they’re begging to be remembered. The rain, relentless and soft, hides your tears — the only kindness this sky offers.
You try to breathe around it, around the heat coiling behind your ribs, around the memory that presses down on your chest like a weight you can’t lift. It shouldn’t hurt like this anymore.
You’re not there. You’re not hers. You’re not her daughter anymore.
And still, you can feel her fingers in your scalp, ghost-thin and cruel, tugging until obedience became instinct.
Even now, even with your hair down and soft and brushed through by Euphemia’s patient hands, the ache lingers — hot and deep at your crown, where braids once pulled tight enough to silence you.
You wonder if the pain will ever leave you, if someday you’ll touch your own head and feel nothing but skin.
She braided your obedience into your body — every twist a warning, every knot a prayer for silence.
You remember sitting beside Regulus, knees knocking together as your mother yanked the brush through your hair.
You whispered, “Do you think cupcakes taste good?” and he smiled like it hurt, like something blooming too fast — neither of you had ever tasted one.
And now, somehow, you’ve found yourself somewhere soft, somewhere warm, where the air doesn’t sting and the quiet isn’t cruel — but still, you carry the weight of old commands in your spine, and your skin tenses like it expects to be scolded.
Even now, even here, you feel like an intruder in your own softness.
You watch James laugh again, mouth open wide, the kind of joy that belongs in sunlit fields and childhood games. And suddenly, you want to scream.
You want to bury your face in his shoulder and cry and say I’m still hurting. I still wake up afraid. I still hear her voice in mine when I speak too sharply. But instead, you sit very still. You keep your shoulders straight.
Because this is the only way you know how to keep from breaking open.
And somehow, even with your twin in the room, even with James who loves you more than air, you’ve never felt more alone. It’s like watching life through glass, your fingers pressed to the warmth without ever quite feeling it.
Their laughter is real, their joy is real, but you are a quiet echo curled in the corner, a shadow in a room full of light, trying to remember what it felt like to belong.
It starts at your spine.
A low throb at first, something quiet enough to ignore if you just breathe through it, if you just pretend long enough that you’re still strong, still whole, still more than what she made of you.
But it spreads. Down your legs, up through your ribs. Every breath starts to feel like a small betrayal — your lungs stiff and aching, like they too are tired of you surviving.
By the time it reaches your hands, you can’t even feel the rain anymore.
It always begins softly—never a crash, just a hush, like memory, like shame, like your mother’s voice woven into the fabric of your childhood.
You’ve learned to carry pain quietly, tucked behind small smiles and well-timed stillness. Inside, they laugh.
And that is when it hits you. The quiet rage. The kind that doesn’t scream but digs deep into your ribs.
Because why didn’t she stop this? Why didn’t she see you breaking and fix it? Why did she look at your pain and name it a lesson?
You hate her. You hate your name. You hate that no matter how far you run, your body still sings in her voice.
You can still feel the ghost of those braids. Can still remember the weight of silence tied to the nape of your neck.
And you wonder — as the rain runs into your eyes and your bones begin to tremble — if you’ll ever be free of her.
If the damage is permanent. If you’ll always be the girl with the broken smile who hides in corners and gardens and rain.
You feel so far away from joy, from light, from yourself, breath snagging not on a sob but on a scream too tired to rise, your body tight with silence, with the weight of what you won’t let slip.
Then warmth, sudden and soft, fingers on your cheeks, steady and certain, anchoring you to the now.
You flinch, bracing for the sting, for the world to splinter beneath the touch, but the hands stay, quiet and kind.
A voice follows, low and breathless, threaded with something like worry, something like care—“Hey, look at me, c’mon, open your eyes for me,” And you do, slowly, like coming up for air after a long, aching dive.
And there he is — James Potter, kneeling in the wet grass in front of you like he was sent by the gods of mercy themselves. Soaked clean through, curls matted to his forehead, glasses beaded with rain.
His hands cradle your face like he’s holding something sacred, and there’s not a flicker of pity in his gaze. Only concern. Only knowing. Only love.
Your mouth trembles, but the words won’t come. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with cleverness, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or tell you it’s okay—because it isn’t.
He just stays close, forehead nearly brushing yours, his gaze steady and bright like lanterns flickering through the rain.
You don’t notice the tremble in your hands at first, only the sharp hitch in your breath and the way your bones begin to shake, too deep for the rain to be the cause.
The ache builds quietly, curling behind your ribs like smoke, but then it crests, pressing up into your throat until your mouth tastes of salt and sorrow. And then the tears come—jagged, hot, unhidden.
You hate it. Hate how your body betrays you like this. Hate that even now — surrounded by warmth, by voices that laugh like nothing hurts — you can’t stop breaking. That even now, soaked in the middle of spring rain, your grief still finds you.
His thumbs sweep along your cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, and the word breaks something open in you. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s kind.
“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You shake your head. The words come before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I— I don’t know why I’m crying, I just— I still feel so broken sometimes. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just be fine.”
Your voice cracks, and so does your chest.
James doesn’t say anything right away. He just pulls you close — soaked wool and trembling hands and that smell of petrichor and something sweeter beneath it, something like safety. One of his hands slides to your back, the other still at your jaw, grounding you.
And then he says, soft as rain, “Then I’ll just love you in pieces.”
“I’ll love you whole, when you’re ready,” he continues, breath warm against your temple, “but if all you can give me today are pieces, then I’ll hold them all. I’ll love you as you are. No fixing, no conditions. Just you.”
Something in your chest gives in.
And you sob again, not from pain this time, but from relief. From the unbearable gentleness in his voice. From the way he’s still here, even as your tears fall like spring rain and your body aches with every breath.
“I don’t want to be pieces forever,” you whisper.
“You won’t be,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from cold, but his eyes are steady. “But if you are, even just for a little while… I’m still yours.”
You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him.
Then his voice cuts gently through the hush, low and steady near your ear.
“Some days,” he says, “your smile will feel like a lie.”
James doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask you to stop crying, doesn’t try to fix the ache sitting heavy in your chest. He just keeps going, voice warm, soaked hair sticking to his forehead as he holds your gaze.
“And that’s alright. I’ll know where to find the real one.”
You glance up at him, lashes damp, heart aching. “Where?”
He grins, the smallest tilt of his mouth, not smug or teasing but certain, like he has spent months learning every version of you, and this one—wet with rain, worn thin, unraveling at the edges—is just another part of the map he already knows by heart.
“I find it when you’re baking with Mum,” he says first, brushing a lock of wet hair from your cheek. “When you pretend not to care but you lean in every time she offers to teach you something.”
You swallow. He goes on.
“When you try something new and your face gets all confused, and Regulus teases you, and you act offended but you never actually stop.”
You let out the softest breath — almost a laugh.
“When Sirius hugs you and you pretend to hate it, but you always hug him back for half a second longer than he does.”
You hate how seen that makes you feel.
“When I kiss you,” James says, voice dipping slightly lower, “and you push me away, all huffing and scowling — but then you smile anyway, right after. Not for me to see. Just… because.”
You look down, heart a mess in your throat.
“When you steal the biggest jumper in the room but still act like it’s not enough and curl up into yourself like you’re trying to disappear.”
You blink. You hadn’t even known he’d noticed that.
“When you fidget with your rings during serious conversations. When you cut your toast into perfect halves but only eat one.”
He brushes his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.
“When you braid your hair with shaking hands on bad days because it’s the only thing you can still control.”
He keeps going, and he doesn’t falter once.
“When you laugh at something Sirius says but bite the inside of your cheek after, like you’re not used to joy lasting that long.”
You’re crying again. This time you let yourself.
“When you tuck your feet under you on the couch and pretend you’re cold, even though we both know it’s just so you won’t be touched unless you choose it.”
You want to look away, but he won’t let you.
“When you whisper goodnight to your own reflection in the hallway mirror — like you’re still learning how to be kind to the girl staring back.”
“And when you say nothing at all,” James murmurs, “but your fingers reach for mine under the table anyway.”
His voice is almost a prayer now.
“I find your real smile in the in-between places—the quiet moments, the gentle cracks where the light slips through.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like a promise.
“So even when you feel like you’re disappearing, like you’ve slipped too far into the dark — I’ll still know where to look.”
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until James wipes a tear from your chin, not startled, not worried — just there, always, with hands steady and patient.
“See?” he says softly. “Even when you’re hiding, you still leave a trail.”
“And you’ll always find it?” you whisper, throat thick.
He leans his forehead against yours, soaked and breathless. “Every time.”
His thumb brushes another tear from your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something sacred.
Then another. And another. As if every drop matters to him. As if each one deserves to be seen, and then let go.
His other hand finds its way into your hair, tucking back a rain-heavy strand that clings stubbornly to your skin.
You’re both soaked — your clothes plastered to your bodies, your hearts just as bare — but his gaze holds so much gentleness, it feels like warmth.
He leans in.
Not rushed, not greedy — just sure. Like this moment has always been waiting for itself. His lips meet yours, soft and slow and steady, like the way honey slips from a spoon.
And when you pull back — cheeks damp with rain and love alike — you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, voice barely a whisper.
“I love you, Jamie.”
He stills. Just for a second. Like the world stopped to catch its breath.
Then: “Merlin, I love when you say my name like that.”
You laugh, a little hiccup of sound against his chest, like joy finally broke the surface.
He grins into your hair, arms tightening. “Say it again.”
“No,” you murmur, but you’re still smiling, your face warm despite the chill. “Don’t get greedy.”
“Oh, but I will,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “because I’ve been waiting since the minute I met you for this moment. For you, all of you.”
You shake your head, blushing, but before you can bury yourself back into his chest, he tugs on your hand and nods toward the house. “Come on, love. Let’s go make some more frosting.”
You blink at him. “Didn’t we have frosting two days ago?”
“Yeah,” he says, practically beaming, “and we’ll have it every day if you want. Frosting and love and all the soft things you never got.”
You don’t answer right away.
You just let yourself be pulled forward, hand in his, the rain washing down your spine like a second spine. Inside the house — warm, golden, safe — light spills through the windows.
Through the foggy glass, you can already see Sirius rolling his eyes at something Euphemia says, while Regulus sips tea like it’s a ceremony and pretends not to smile.
Inside, your voice rises again—bright and unexpected, like a flame refusing to go out.
James watches you with that look he doesn’t bother hiding anymore, the one that says he’s memorizing you, holding each moment like it’s something rare, something he’s scared to lose.
You swipe frosting onto his nose, slow and teasing, and he doesn’t flinch. Just stands there with that soft look he gets sometimes, the one that feels like a held breath.
Then, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be known by you, he dips a finger into the bowl, brings it to his mouth, and pulls a face so exaggerated it nearly breaks your laugh into two.
He grimaces like a child tasting medicine, all scrunched eyes and over-the-top theatrics, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a real one, bright and full in your chest like something blooming open.
He leans in close, gentle in a way he doesn't speak aloud, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s sacred.
The world hums along as if nothing has shifted, but something has. In the stillness that follows, he looks at you like he could live a hundred lives and choose this one every time—just to be here, covered in sugar and light, with you laughing in the kitchen like it’s never hurt to be alive.
Outside the doorway, tucked in the quiet curve of the hallway, two figures stand watching. The lights from the kitchen paint them in warm shadows.
Euphemia stands in the doorway, her silhouette lit soft by the kitchen light.
She watches her son with something ancient in her gaze — not surprise, not pride, but the kind of quiet understanding only mothers ever seem to carry.
Her hands are tucked gently into her sleeves, like there’s something sacred she’s holding onto.
A moment later, Sirius joins her, silent and slow, leaning against the frame beside her.
“She thinks he hates frosting,” Euphemia says softly, her voice like the rain still tapping the roof.
Sirius glances sideways. “He doesn’t?”
“He adores it,” she murmurs. “Used to sneak it out of the tin with a spoon when he was ten. Still does, when no one’s looking.”
Sirius huffs a breath of laughter. “Why let her think otherwise?”
Euphemia doesn’t look away from the pair in the kitchen. “Because she always lets him have the cake part. And he wants her to have the sweet.”
Sirius looks toward his brother, who’s now brushing a smudge of flour from your nose while you pretend not to smile too much.
“He’d give her anything.”
“He does,” Euphemia says. “Even the things she doesn’t know she’s missing.”
There’s a pause, soft and full of something unspoken, before Sirius says quietly, almost to himself,
“She’ll be loved.”
And so you stand in the kitchen washed in gold, where the rain outside sings soft against the windows and the scent of vanilla drapes itself over the bones of the house.
There were years when love came braided in silence and obedience, when sweetness was something you only ever imagined, something you gave away without tasting, something that lived in storybooks and other people’s birthdays.
But here — in this glowing hush, in the weight of his eyes on you like a vow he keeps choosing — something breaks open in you. Gently. Without pain.
The bowl is nearly empty, but the love lingers, rich and steady, not loud or grand, but real in the quiet curve of your mouth and the warmth in your chest.
Behind you, in the doorway, a mother and a brother stand without speaking, carrying a kind of ache that only love knows — the kind that waits in the wings, the kind that chooses softness again and again.
And maybe that is what love is in the end, not the absence of pain but the presence that follows it, the quiet return, the choosing again and again.
He never stopped loving the sweetness. He just wanted you to have it first — to taste what your childhood kept out of reach, to learn that softness could be safe, that someone would wait in the rain with hands full of kindness just to be near you, that someone would stay even when you break, even when you cannot ask.
Simply to show that no matter what the world took from you, you will be loved.
Okay genuinely need help finding a fic that I can’t get out of my head. I’m a little fuzzy with the details but I do know it’s at least a 2 part blurb from like a year or two ago. It’s Joel Miller (this fic was straight up smut with a semi plot) all I remember from the first part is that reader is working as a glory hole girl (basically they get paid with ration cards and it’s under the radar for obvious reasons) and somehow Joel ends up going and finding reader. He becomes extremely possessive over her and won’t share to the point where he gets yelled at by someone else for not sharing lol, reader is like super into it too cause typically she’s like bored out of her mind because everyone else just uses her to get themselves off but Joel makes sure to focus on her. And then when he pays and leaves behind his number it transports us to the part two where reader debate’s seeing him in person cause mind you they’ve never seen each others faces before, ultimately she decides it’s a good idea and meets up with him and gets completely rearranged…
So yeah if anyone remembers this fic I would greatly appreciate the link 🫡 like I’m so frustrated with myself that I forgot to save the link and the author of it because I think about it from time to time. Any and all help would be greatly appreciated <3
i think your house is haunted (and i think you should come live with me)
sirius black x reader ✰ 6.8k
synopsis: "sweet tea in the summer, cross my heart, won't tell no other. and though i can't recall your face, i still got love for you"
— or in which you return to the town you left at eight, where the haunted house still stands two doors down and the boy from your childhood waits. together, you wander where trees were planets, swings were ships, and love was only ever pretend. but somewhere between saturn and moon, pretend begins to feel like something real.
cw: childhood friends to strangers to lovers, childhood trauma, implied child neglect and abuse, grief and loss, first love, virgin!reader, first kiss, heavy nostalgia, bittersweet memories, soft angst, mentions of found family, childhood flashbacks, vulnerable dialogue, muggle modern au.
masterlist
It has been twelve years since you last stood on this street, though the road has barely changed.
The sun drips slow gold onto the front lawn, pooling over manicured hedges and pale white shutters, casting long shadows from the wrought iron fence that still curls around the perimeter like it’s guarding something precious.
You step out of the car, the heat clinging to your skin, your arms full of cardboard boxes, the scent of soil already slipping into your senses.
Your father moves ahead of you with purpose, two heavy boxes stacked in his arms, his voice calling out over his shoulder. “Just put your things in your room, sweetheart. Same one as always.”
As if it hasn’t been over a decade. As if this is just another summer, and not the beginning of something you don’t yet have words for.
Your mother lingers by the garden gate, already kneeling, hands disappearing into the tall grass that has grown untamed since the last time she stood here. “We’ll bring it back,” she murmurs, more to the soil than to you. “It’ll be just like before.”
You don’t answer. You’re too busy letting the house look at you. It’s still beautiful — smaller than you remembered, painted in shades of bone-white with wide bay windows and a garden that once bloomed so fiercely it made the neighbors whisper.
There are five houses on this street, each spaced with intentional elegance, each trimmed with green like something from a magazine. Your parents' house is the brightest among them, sun-warmed and quietly proud.
But two houses down, the contrast strikes you like a breath caught in your throat.
That house, black, sharp-roofed, and peeling at the edges, seems to exist in a different season altogether.
The shutters are closed. The curtains drawn. The grass is overgrown, brittle and yellowed in places, as if even the earth there has learned not to hope. You pause on the steps with the last box in your hands, your eyes narrowing slightly. There’s something in the silence of that house, something that stirs at the edge of your memory like a ripple over still water.
“Mom?” you call softly, setting the box down by the door and stepping back out onto the porch. “That house down there. The one that looks abandoned. Who lives there?”
She doesn’t look up from where she’s trimming the hedges, but her voice carries easily. “That’s the House of Black.”
You turn to glance at it again, the name sending something peculiar through your chest.
“The House of Black?” you repeat, the name strange on your tongue.
She finally rises, brushing the soil gently from her knees, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t you remember? You used to be really close with the boy who lived there. He went to school with you for a while — mischievous one. Sirius, wasn’t it? You two were inseparable once, like the best of friends, always getting into trouble together.”
Sirius.
The name hits you in a place that still remembers freckles and laughter and hands that held yours too tightly during storms. You don’t say anything. You only nod and carry the last box into the house.
Inside, everything is like it was left waiting — the polished floors, the tall ceilings, the quiet scent of cedar that lingers in the corners of the rooms. Your old bedroom feels like it’s been frozen in time.
The window still faces the same view of the road, the pale blue wallpaper is faded only slightly, and the bookshelf still holds a few forgotten toys and a dusty snow globe with a miniature swing inside. You run your hand along the desk where you once drew pictures of monsters and fairies.
“I’m going for a walk,” you call out toward the hallway as you lace your shoes by the door. “I just want to see it all again.”
“Don’t be too long,” your mother replies gently. “Lunch’s in an hour!”
You step out into the early evening light, and it feels like the past reaches out to wrap around your shoulders. The road stretches ahead, framed by the five houses you once knew by heart.
Beyond the end of the street, past a rusted fence and a line of old maples, the lake comes into view.
It’s just as you remembered, wide and glimmering, wrapped in trees. A place where the sky always felt closer, where time used to loosen its grip.
You follow the familiar path, gravel crunching softly under your steps, your fingers brushing along tall wild grass as you go. Just beyond the lake lies the woods — dense, green, and slow with memory. You pass the tree you once named Saturn. And there it is.
The swing.
Still hanging from its old branch, its rope faded but strong. The wooden seat is chipped now, moss curling at the edges, but it’s there. And behind it, just visible through the trees, is the house you once believed was haunted.
Your mind drifts back to when you were seven, to afternoons spent beneath this very tree, where everything seemed larger than life.
-
The tree was huge, the biggest one near the lake, its bark rough and speckled with moss, tied with rope so thick it scratched your hands when you touched it. Your father had tied the knot last summer.
It was summer, and everything smelled warm. You wore your favorite dress, the one with the little blue flowers on it. Your mum had ironed it that morning. Now it was crumpled and slightly muddy at the hem, but you didn’t care.
You sat on the swing, legs swinging back and forth, hair flying in your face, and behind you was a boy with messy dark hair and a stick in his hand.
You didn’t really remember how he looked. His face was all fuzzy now, like trying to see through a rainy window. But you remembered his voice. You remembered how he pushed the swing just right, not too hard, not too soft. You remembered how he laughed when you laughed.
“Higher,” you giggled, gripping the ropes.
“I can’t,” he said, pretending to grunt as he pushed. “You’ll fall off and the crocodiles’ll eat you!”
“There aren’t any crocodiles in the lake,” you said, kicking your legs.
“Yes there are. There’s millions, big ones, and they love princesses.” He waved his stick in the air. “But don’t worry, I’ll save you. I’m the pirate and this swing’s our boat.”
You rolled your eyes, even though you were smiling. “That’s wrong! It’s supposed to be a prince saving a princess from pirates. Not a pirate saving a princess from other pirates.”
“I don’t wanna be a prince,” he said quickly, with a frown in his voice.
“Princes are boring. They just wear fancy clothes and sit on horses and don’t do anything. Pirates are cool, they have swords and ships and treasure and... parrots.”
You twisted around to look at him, trying to see his face, but the sun was behind him. “But pirates are the bad guys.”
“I’m a nice pirate,” he insisted. “A good one. You’re the princess and I’m the pirate and we’re sailing away to India.”
“Why India?” you laughed.
“Because that’s where treasure is. That’s where everything is!” He puffed out his chest. “My uncle has a book about it. The colors there are shiny. I saw them.”
You didn’t know much about India except for the map in the globe in your father’s office. You used to spin it until it made you dizzy.
Nearby, your plushies were sitting in a circle on a picnic blanket. Your rabbit was there, and your bear, and the small dog with one ear bent the wrong way.
They were all watching the game, very seriously. The rabbit was the captain, and the bear was the lookout.
“This boat needs snacks,” you said suddenly, hopping off the swing and letting your bare feet touch the grass. “I’m gonna get apples.”
But instead of apples, you ran toward the tree next to the big one. It was smaller, but you had always liked it. You could climb it easily, especially if you stepped on the knot in the trunk. Sirius called out from behind you.
“You can’t do that. You’re a princess! You’re supposed to stay on the boat.”
“I’m a different kind of princess,” you shouted as you started climbing. “One who can do what she wants.”
He ran up to the bottom of the tree and stared up at you. “My mum says girls have to sit nice and boys have to be strong and loud. So you can’t climb, only I can climb.”
“That’s dumb,” you called down, wrapping your hands around a branch. “If girls want to climb trees, they can. Maybe your mum just doesn’t know how.”
He looked like he was thinking very hard about that. You swung your leg over a branch and perched there like a bird.
“See?” you said proudly. “Now I’m taller than you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m the pirate. Pirates are supposed to be the tallest.”
You just stuck your tongue out and stood up, wobbling slightly on the branch before jumping down. You landed with a loud splat in the mud and your dress got dirty all over the back. You stared at it for a second, then laughed and wiped your hands on it too.
“Now I’m a pirate princess,” you declared. “See?”
He stared at the mud, at your feet, and then started laughing too. “Fine,” he said. “You’re a pirate princess. But I’m still the captain.”
“No, the rabbit is the captain.”
“That’s not fair. He doesn’t even have a sword.”
“You can be the cook.”
“I’m not being the cook!”
“Then you can be the pirate who sings songs and ties the ropes and swabs the deck and steers the ship and—”
“I get it,” he said quickly. “I’ll be everything.”
You nodded. “Okay. You be everything, but I get to name the trees.”
“This one’s Saturn,” you said proudly, pointing at the tall one.
“Sat-ren?” Sirius wrinkled his nose. “What’s that even mean?”
You shrugged, picking at the edge of your sleeve. “I dunno. It just sounds really fancy. I heard my mum say Moon and Saturn in the kitchen once, and I think they go together. Like best friends.”
He looked at the trees for a minute, then nodded slowly. “So I can be Saturn, and you can be Moon.”
You looked at him funny. “No, silly. Those are Saturn and Moon. The trees, not us.”
“Oh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Well… I still wanna be best friends like Saturn and Moon.”
You thought about it for a second, then smiled really big. “Okay! You can be a star, and I’ll be the sun. Stars and suns are best friends too.”
He perked up like you’d just given him the best idea ever. “Ooh, I like that. But only if I get to be a really cool star.”
You thought for a second, squinting at him in the sunlight. Then you pointed at his shirt. “You’re wearing grey, like the stars.”
He looked down at himself.
“And I’m wearing yellow,” you said, twirling a little so your dress spun out. “So I’m the sun.”
“So I’m a star?” he said, grinning.
You nodded fast. “Yep. A star star. Like, up-in-the-sky star.”
He grinned so big you could see the gap in his front teeth.
“And I’m the sun. So we stay close forever. Like... right next to each other forever and ever!” you said seriously.
Sirius held out his pinky. “Pinky promise?”
You hooked yours with his and gave it a squeeze. “Pinky promise.”
You looked up at the trees, then at him. The sun was behind him again, so his face was still blurry, still hidden.
“Let’s sail between them,” he said, lifting his stick-sword and pointing to the space between the trunks. “If we go through Saturn and Moon, that means we’re halfway to India.”
“What if the crocodiles come?”
“I’ll fight them,” he promised.
You picked up your rabbit and handed him to Sirius. “Here,” you said, very seriously. “He’s the captain. You have to listen to him.”
He held the rabbit like it was real, tucked it under one arm, and nodded. “Aye aye, Captain!”
You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt.
-
The memory fades slowly, like sunlight sliding off the swing ropes, like warm air settling back into stillness.
You blink and find yourself in the present again, your footsteps soft on the curve of the road, the sky above tinged with the early hues of evening. The wind still carries stories you thought you’d forgotten.
You walk past the same five houses that made up your world once. Yours still looks bright, white and gentle, with its garden waiting to bloom. But as you move down the road, it’s the one two doors away that pulls your attention again.
The House of Black.
It sits in the shadows, even though there’s still sun in the sky. The roof is sharp, the shutters closed, the grass left to dry and curl in patches.
You slow your steps, drawn to it without meaning to be, and the closer you get, the heavier it feels. You stare at the second floor, the crooked windows, the empty porch, and something tugs at you again — soft at first, then clearer.
Another memory.
It comes back not like a wave, but like the sound of your own laughter echoing somewhere far away.
-
You were seven, and the tea party was very, very important.
You’d set it up just right — your favorite pink blanket on the grass, your plushies all sitting in their places.
Rabbit was in charge, because she was the queen, obviously. Bear was her royal guard. The cat was lying sideways with her paw in the sugar bowl, but you let it slide. Mrs. T kept tipping over, but turtles were slow, so that made sense.
You had your sparkly headband on and your mum’s old scarf tied around your shoulders like a cape.
“Rabbit says you’re slurping too loud,” you told him, pouring pretend tea into his empty cup.
He looked at Rabbit like he was thinking about starting a fight. “Well Bear says Rabbit’s being bossy again.”
“She’s not! She’s the queen, and queens make the rules.”
He frowned and slurped even louder on purpose. “Bear’s gonna steal the sugar bowl and run away to the forest.”
You giggled, loud and sudden, until your headband nearly slipped off. “No running away! This is a peaceful tea kingdom.”
Sirius grinned a little but then went quiet. He looked down at the plate in front of him, picking at the crumbs with one finger.
Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “What time do you hide in your closet?”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“When the monsters come out. Do you hide before bedtime or after?”
You tilted your head. “I don’t hide. There’s no monsters in my house.”
He looked surprised. “Not even at night?”
You shook your head. “Nope. My house is boring.”
Sirius didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes distant and serious. Then he nodded slowly. “Well… mine has lots of monsters.”
You leaned closer, elbows resting on your knees, voice soft with curiosity. “Where?”
“In the walls, I think,” he whispered. “And under the stairs. They bang on stuff, and it makes Mum and Dad really mad. Then they yell, alot.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you just blinked at him, letting the silence hang between you.
“Sometimes they break things,” he added quietly. “That’s when I hide Reggie.”
“Who’s Reggie?”
“My little brother. He’s a baby, kinda. I put him in the closet at eight o’clock. That’s when the monsters get the loudest.”
You felt a strange flutter in your chest—not quite fear, but the ache you get when you read a sad story by mistake and it stays with you all day.
“Well,” you said carefully, “I think your house is haunted too.”
Sirius looked at you, surprised but not dismissive.
“Your dad’s always mad,” you confessed softly, “and your mum is… whatever she is. It’s always making you sad.”
He nodded slowly, like he’d been waiting to hear that.
“The ghosts,” he said quietly, pulling up his sleeve to reveal a dark blue mark blooming across his skin, “they give me these when I’m asleep. They hurt Reggie too.”
You reached out a hand before thinking, voice steady and sure. “You can move to my house. We don’t have ghosts or monsters.”
But Sirius shook his head stubbornly. “I won’t leave Reggie with the ghosts!”
You reached for the last biscuit on the plate — the one with the most sugar — and handed it to him. “It’s okay. You can live in my house, and you can bring your brother!”
He blinked at you.
“Just for now,” you added. “Until your house gets... un-hauntedly ghosted.”
He stared at you for a second, then let out a weird little laugh. “That’s not a real word!”
“It is now.”
He smiled sadly. “My house is never gonna be un-hauntedly ghosted.”
“Then stay in mine forever,” you said. “We have pillows, and a closet with fairy lights, and no monsters at all.”
Sirius didn’t answer. He just took the biscuit and held it with both hands, like it was something special.
Then he looked at Rabbit, nodded very seriously, and said, “Thanks, Your Majesty.”
-
The road is quieter in the afternoon, lined with the soft hum of cicadas and the hush of sun-filtered trees. You’re walking back from the lake, shoes brushing against gravel, hair tied up to keep the heat off your neck.
You pass the Black house without meaning to slow, but something makes you look.
The shutters are open.
For the first time since you came back, the windows aren’t closed and the porch doesn’t look like it’s holding its breath. There’s light on in the front hallway, warm and real, spilling out behind the glass.
You pause.
A second later, the door creaks open, and someone steps out.
He’s tall, effortlessly commanding the space around him. Broad-shouldered, his silhouette strong and sure beneath a pair of dark, well-worn jeans and a leather jacket that’s softened with age, the collar casually turned up, giving him an air of quiet rebellion.
His hair is long and black, cascading past his chin in soft, unruly waves that catch the fading light. The edges of his sharp jawline catch the glow too, tracing a perfect line that hints at something both dangerous and magnetic.
He moves with a lazy grace, the slow stretch of his arm as he pulls out a cigarette, then leans against the railing with a casual ease that somehow feels deliberate, as if every small gesture is part of a silent rhythm only he knows.
He doesn’t see you.
You watch him for a moment longer than you intend, caught between fascination and something unspoken. Then, almost reluctantly, you turn away.
Four days pass.
You fall into something soft and predictable. Mornings are for walking, afternoons are for errands, evenings are for sitting with books you don’t finish. You pick wildflowers near the lake. You refill the bird feeder.
And then, on the fourth day, it happens.
You’re coming back from the bakery with a paper bag of warm rolls tucked under your arm. It’s nearly noon. The sun is high, and you’re walking up the drive, keys in hand, when you see him.
He’s standing on your porch.
That same man. The one from the Black house.
But this time, he isn’t leaning back in silence. Instead, he’s engaged in conversation with your parents, his hands moving expressively as he speaks. His voice is low and warm, carrying a quiet confidence. A genuine smile plays on his lips, and in response, your parents return the gesture—soft, easy smiles that light up their faces.
As you step closer, your father turns toward you, a warm smile breaking across his face. “Oh, Y/N, there you are!”
Your mother’s eyes light up as she beams, “Look who it is.”
The man turns, slowly, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to tilt off its axis.
You find yourself staring, breath caught in your throat, because it’s not just any someone standing there. It’s him.
“Hi,” he says, and there’s a lilt in his voice that is familiar, even after all this time. “It’s been a while.”
“Sirius,” your mother says softly, like she’s offering the name to you gently. “You remember Sirius, don’t you?”
Your mouth opens. You almost say no. Because that can’t be Sirius.
Not the boy with scraped knees and biscuit crumbs on his lip. Not the boy who once called himself a pirate and promised to fight monsters with a stick-sword and a crooked grin.
Because this man—this Sirius—is the hottest man you have ever seen.
“Hey,” he says, quiet, almost cautious. “It’s been a while.”
Sirius takes a step forward, but your mother is already ushering herself and your father back toward the door, her hands clasped together.
“We thought you two might want to catch up,” she says, and the front door closes behind her with a soft click.
You and Sirius are left on the porch, facing each other in the late sun.
His voice breaks the silence first. “Want to go for a walk?”
You nod.
You do not trust yourself to speak yet.
You walk side by side in the softened light of late afternoon, your sandals brushing through the tall grass that edges the road, his boots pressing into the earth like he’s done this a hundred times before.
He keeps a careful distance and you’re grateful for it. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, just full. Like there is too much to say and neither of you know which part should come first.
“So,” he says eventually, glancing at you, his voice low and smooth. “You really don’t remember me?”
You look at him quickly, a little startled. “Of course I do. I mean, not everything. Just… pieces.”
“What kind of pieces?”
You hesitate. “The swing by the lake. Tea parties. You had a stick and called it your sword, and I made you wear flower crowns.”
He laughs, soft and warm. “Sounds about right. You were very bossy, if I remember correctly.”
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were. You told me Rabbit was the queen of the world and I had to bow to her or be banished.”
You smile in spite of yourself, looking down at the path ahead. “You didn’t seem to mind.”
“I didn’t,” he says, more gently now. “It was the only place things didn’t feel awful.”
You glance sideways at him. His face is unreadable.
“I went to school here,” he says after a moment, his voice low and thoughtful.
“Just outside town in this old, creaky building. It felt like a castle sometimes, big and cold, with the worst heating you can imagine. The uniforms were awful too, stiff collars and scratchy ties.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Sounds like something someone made up.”
He grins, eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “I know, right? It sounds almost too strange to be real. But it was real enough for me. That’s where I met my closest friends, James, Remus, and Peter.”
You nod, sensing the weight behind his words. “That must have meant a lot.”
You don’t say anything to that, but your gaze softens. Then you ask softly, “Do you still live here?”
He shakes his head, a small, almost wistful smile touching his lips. “I moved out when I was sixteen,” he continues, his tone lighter now, as if saying it aloud eases the weight a little. “Into James’s house. His parents took me in, and I never really came back here after that. Not unless I had to.”
You nod slowly, understanding settling between you. “Because of the monsters.”
He gives you a strange look — startled, almost — but you don’t flinch from it.
“We were just kids,” you say quietly. “But I still remember the way you said it—how there were monsters in your house. I didn’t understand what that meant back then. I just thought maybe you had ghosts. But I guess… it wasn’t ghosts.”
Sirius exhales through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh. “Yeah, though monsters is quite fitting if you ask me.”
He looks at you then, curiosity softening his gaze. “Why did you leave, Y/N?”
You walk in silence for a moment, the sound of your footsteps mingling with the distant rustling of leaves.
“I left the summer I turned eight,” you finally say. “My dad got sick, it was sudden. We needed to be somewhere with better hospitals. So we packed everything and moved to the city. I barely had time to say goodbye to my dolls, let alone the people.”
He nods slowly, his eyes drifting toward the curve of the road, his voice quiet but full of something that’s sat in his chest for years. “I used to wonder what happened to you. One day, you were just gone, like you’d disappeared overnight.”
You exhale, the weight of time curling in your throat. “I didn’t mean to vanish,” you say softly.
“It all happened so fast. My dad got sick, and we had to move almost immediately. I barely had time to say goodbye to my dolls, let alone the people. But I thought about this place all the time. I never really let it go.”
He looks at you again, his expression unreadable, the silence stretching between you like something delicate. “And now you’re back.”
You nod. “Just for the summer, maybe longer, I haven’t decided yet. The city’s loud and always moving, always demanding something from you. I used to think I liked that—liked the pace and the noise—but lately, it just feels like I’m always behind, always exhausted, and somehow still alone. It stopped feeling like somewhere I could stay.”
He tilts his head, considering that, the way he used to when you were both small and everything was simpler. “And here?”
“It’s still quiet,” you say, your voice softer now. “Still slow in all the right ways. And I think… I need that.”
Sirius smiles, and it’s a different smile than you remember—older, a little heavier, but still touched with something golden and familiar. It lingers on his face as if it belongs there, as if it never really left.
“I always liked your house,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder. “It always felt warm. That soft white paint, the porch full of flowers. Your garden smelled like strawberries, and your mum used to leave lemonade out even when it rained.”
“She still does,” you say, your lips curling with affection. “She says someone might come by and need it, even if they don’t know they do.”
He lets out a breath, not quite a laugh, but close. “Your mum loved me. I don’t think I ever understood how much until I got older.”
“She did,” you say gently. “She always said you were too thin, and too quiet for a boy who was supposed to be causing trouble. I think she wanted to keep you.”
“I loved her too,” Sirius says, and this time his smile is real and soft and full of something almost childlike.
“She gave the best hugs. Like, actually the best. And her food—don’t even get me started. I still remember that stew she made with the star-shaped carrots. I thought it was magic.”
“She called it that. Kitchen magic. Said if you were going to feed kids, you should do it with a little love and a little fun.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll come steal a glass of that lemonade. For old time’s sake.”
“You’re welcome to it,” you reply, smiling. “But only if you bow to Queen Rabbit first!”
Sirius laughs, the sound low and warm in the air between you. “Naturally. I wouldn’t dream of disrespecting the crown.”
You both laugh again, and the sound is light enough to lift something heavy from your chest. You walk further until you can see the lake glinting through the trees, and for a while, neither of you speaks. The silence feels more like company than distance.
Then, without warning, you speak.
“You had a brother.”
He goes still beside you. The change is immediate, the lightness in his shoulders fades, the lines in his brow sharpen, and his hands curl slightly in the pockets of his jacket.
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I did.”
You tread carefully. “Is he… not here?”
There’s a long pause.
“No,” Sirius says at last. “He didn’t move out. He—” He stops, and when he speaks again, it’s with practiced calm. “He drowned a few years ago in an accident.”
Your breath catches. “Oh. Sirius… I’m so sorry.”
He nods once, but doesn’t look at you. His eyes are on the lake, on the rippling water and the light it throws onto the trees.
“I didn’t really talk about him much,” he says. “Even then. Reggie was… soft. Too soft. I tried to protect him, but I couldn’t always be there. And in the end I wasn’t.”
You don’t know what to say. No apology seems large enough to meet that kind of loss.
So instead, you reach over, very gently, and your fingers graze his. It is not a grand gesture. It is not anything loud. But his hand doesn’t move away.
You stay like that a moment longer, just watching the light on the lake, remembering what it used to be like before you knew the names of the things that broke your hearts.
When the lake comes into view, you pull ahead a little, feet kicking up dust as you start toward it. Your eyes brighten.
“God,” you say suddenly, spinning halfway back to look at him. “It’s so much smaller than I remember.”
Sirius lifts a brow. “What, the lake?”
“Yeah. When I was little, it felt endless. I thought it touched other countries.”
“Maybe it does,” he says. “Maybe there’s a secret portal in the middle.”
You scoff. “Please. If there was, we’d have found it by now. We practically lived here.”
“I mostly remember being bossed around here,” he replies, grinning. “You made me fight invisible monsters and serve tea to a rabbit.”
“Rabbit was royalty,” you say. “You were her loyal knight.”
“I was her prisoner.”
“You had fun.”
“Maybe I did.”
You smile and step closer to the water, watching how it catches the late sun. Then you nod toward the trees flanking either side of the lake.
“Those still have names.”
Sirius follows your gaze. “Saturn and Moon?”
You nod.
“Come on,” he calls, glancing back. “We’re climbing the tree.”
“No, we’re not,” you say flatly.
He stops. “What do you mean no?”
“I haven’t climbed anything in years. I’ll probably fall and break something!”
“You used to say girls could climb better than boys.”
“I was seven.”
“You still said it.”
You cross your arms. “So what? You want me to prove it?”
He smirks. “I want to see if you’ve still got it.”
You stare at him, then at the tree.
“Fine. But if I fall, it’s on you.”
“Deal,” he says. “But I’ll catch you anyway.”
You shake your head, biting back a laugh. You approach the tree and begin climbing, awkward at first, but your muscles remember. You settle onto a thick branch, legs dangling, and breathe out slowly.
Sirius stays below, hands in his jacket pockets, looking up at you with that lazy, amused expression.
“Well?” you ask. “Do I look ridiculous?”
“Not even a little,” he says. “You look like a princess-pirate.”
You rest your arms on your knees, watching him. “You’re still full of lines, huh?”
“I mean it.”
You look away for a second, caught off guard.
“So,” you say, shifting the conversation. “What have you been up to, pirate boy?”
He rolls his eyes. “God. You haven’t changed.”
You jump down from the tree before you let that line settle too deeply, but your foot slips slightly as you land, and he steps forward instinctively, hands at your waist, steadying you.
“Careful.”
“I’m fine,” you say, voice a little breathless.
You meet his eyes for a second. Long enough to feel the warmth press into your ribs. Then you step back, brushing dirt from your skirt.
“You should come in,” you say, voice easy but hopeful.
He blinks, as if he didn’t quite hear you right. “What?”
“For dinner,” you clarify, tucking your hands into your pockets. “My mum would be thrilled to see you. And if she made that lemon chicken I think she made, you’d be out of your mind to say no.”
Sirius studies you for a beat longer than necessary, eyes searching your face like he’s still not sure if this is real. “Are you sure?”
You nod, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I mean, unless you’re busy doing pirate business.”
He smirks. “Only if Queen Rabbit summoned me personally.”
“Well,” you say, nudging your shoulder against his, “until then.”
“Until then,” he echoes, a little softer this time.
And together, you begin walking toward the white house at the end of the street, the porch light glowing gently in the dusk like it never stopped waiting for someone to come home.
Your mother greeted him at the door like he was an old neighbor rather than a boy you hadn’t seen in over a decade.
She ushered him in with a warmth that felt startling and inevitable all at once, like she had expected this day to come, and now that it had, she wouldn’t waste a second treating him like family.
“God, Sirius,” she said, beaming as she waved him inside. “Look at you. Last time I saw you, you were eight and covered in mud.”
Sirius grinned, stepping in and shrugging off his jacket. “Honestly, not much has changed. Still a magnet for dirt, just slightly taller.”
Your father stood from the dining table as you led him in, wiping his hands on a napkin and eyeing Sirius curiously — like any father might be with a ghost from their daughter’s past suddenly walking into their whitewashed home.
“It’s good to meet you again, Mr. and Mrs. L/N,” Sirius said, extending his hand first to your father, then your mother. “It’s been a while.”
Your father nodded, still measuring him. “You’re the boy from the end of the road, the Black house, Sirius, right?”
Sirius’s smile shifted just slightly, softened at the edges. “That’s the one. Though I don’t stay there much anymore.”
“You’re back for the summer?” your mother asked, already returning to the kitchen to pull out another plate.
“Sort of. Passing through, I guess,” Sirius said, lowering himself into the chair beside you. “I live in London now. Did a music degree at uni, took a while to figure things out. I do freelance audio production now—sound design, recording sessions, mixing. A bit of everything. It’s good work.”
Your mother placed a new glass in front of him, nodding as if trying to absorb a fuller picture of the boy he’d become. “How wonderful. I always thought you were more artistic than the others.”
Sirius smiled. “That’s a kind way of saying I was a little strange.”
“Well,” your father said, cracking a half-smile, “we like strange in this house. As long as you’re not picky about the food.”
“Never,” Sirius said easily. “I’ve missed real food, honestly. Can’t beat a home-cooked meal.”
Your mother flushed with pleasure and began serving more onto his plate than he could possibly eat, but Sirius took it all without protest.
The conversation flowed gently around the table—your father asking about the studio he worked with, your mother pressing for details about his friends in the city.
Sirius answered every question with a quiet sort of charm, never too slick, never too rehearsed.
You watched him speak like you were trying to piece him together: the boy he had been and the man he had become, sitting there with his fingers curled around a glass of water like it was something holy.
And when you laughed at something he said about a recording session gone wrong—a sound tech accidentally looping cow moos under a serious ballad—he looked at you the way someone might look at sunlight falling through blinds.
Like he hadn’t expected to find it here, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it.
Dinner melted into tea, then tea into comfortable silence, and when the sky outside turned navy and the breeze came soft through the windows, he stood to leave, promising to stop by again soon.
And he did.
He came by the next day with two iced coffees and a half-melted croissant in a paper bag.
The day after that, he knocked again. Said he needed help finding his old bike in the garage, but you both knew it was just a reason to see you. He stayed for hours, poking around the shelves, pointing out things that hadn’t moved in twelve years.
Soon, it became routine.
Sometimes, he came by late in the afternoon when the house was quiet, and you’d sit in your room with the window open, your legs crossed on the bed, his on the floor beside it, playing old songs through his phone and arguing about which ones had aged the worst.
Other times, he’d turn up in the morning with a toolbox, claiming he was helping your dad fix the car, though most of the time they just ended up leaning over the engine, talking about music and whatever Sirius called “life’s current madness.”
He showed you around town again—drove you past old buildings that had been turned into cafes, new murals stretched across crumbling walls. He knew every hidden path, every shortcut, and most of the baristas by name.
You met his best friends: James, who had the kind of warmth that made you instantly want to sit beside him, and Remus, who looked at Sirius like he knew exactly who he was and chose to be friends with anyway.
The three of them were chaotic in their own way, constantly ribbing each other, constantly orbiting around Sirius like he was the center of something—like he always had been.
And soon, you began to feel like someone who had roots here again. Like the girl who used to wear yellow dresses and climb trees and believe that lakes had no end was still inside you, just quieter. You let her speak again, slowly, gently, whenever Sirius looked at you like you mattered.
And he did look at you like that.
Often.
Sometimes too long.
Sometimes not long enough.
You didn’t ask him what he saw when he looked at you like that, and he didn’t say, but something was building.
You felt it every time his shoulder brushed yours, every time he sat too close on the edge of your bed, every time he handed you a cup of coffee and didn’t let go right away. You felt it in the way he said your name, carefully, like it was something worth handling gently.
The summer was unfolding. And you were beginning to unfold with it.
And now, the sun had gone soft again, dipping into late afternoon like it didn’t want to burn too brightly. You and Sirius walked slowly along the path toward the lake, your shoes crunching over dried grass and sun-baked dirt.
In your hands, half-melted popsicles dripped lazily down the wooden sticks.
His was electric blue. Yours, lemon yellow.
He stuck his tongue out suddenly, mischievously, the color startling against his teeth. “I look like I ate a Smurf.”
You laughed, nearly choking on a piece of ice. “You look disgusting.”
He grinned. “Let me see yours.”
You opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, too. “Sunshine girl.”
Sirius snorted. “You always were.”
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, come on.”
He nudged your arm with his elbow, softer than a joke. “Do you remember the first time we met?”
You didn’t need to think long.
“Yeah,” you said. “My seventh birthday.”
The memory came in bright colors: pink, gold, and the warm scent of summer.
-
You had worn the fluffiest pink dress your mother could find, the kind that swished when you twirled and had tiny pearl buttons down the back.
A plastic crown sat crooked on your head. You were a princess, officially. The paper invitations had said so.
Your parents had decorated the front lawn with balloons tied to the fence and hung streamers from the porch.
All the neighborhood kids had come—some running around screaming, some already sitting on blankets and nibbling on triangle sandwiches.
But your eyes weren’t on the party.
They were on the boy sitting far away, crouched near the end of the road, next to the pavement where the grass cracked and the hedges were too wild to trim. He was fiddling with rocks, stacking them, knocking them down.
You had seen him before. On the swing at the park. Beneath the giant oak tree near the lake. In the back row of your classroom, staring at the desk like it held secrets. He was your age. Maybe even in your class. But he was always alone.
Always, always alone.
And he always looked sad.
What could he be sad about? He had the whole world to run in! There was cake to eat! Balloons to chase! You watched him for a few more seconds, frowning. And then, crown bouncing on your head, you marched over.
He didn’t see you at first. You crouched beside him, folding the layers of your dress underneath you.
“Hi!” you said.
He looked up. His eyes were grey like the sky after a storm. His hair was dark and messy and stuck up in the back like a bird had nested in it.
“Are you lost?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Why are you sitting here?”
He shrugged. “Just am.”
You glanced back at the party. Someone was already unwrapping the presents without you.
“It’s my birthday,” you told him proudly. “I’m seven!”
He blinked. “You look too pink.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I look like a princess.”
He tilted his head. “Are you a real one?”
“Yes,” you said immediately. Then you added, “And if you come to my party, you can be a prince.”
He made a face. “Yuck! Princes are boring. They wear shoes with buckles and talk too much.”
You thought about that. It was a fair point.
“Okay,” you said. “You can be a pirate.”
He stared at you like you’d offered him treasure. “Really?”
“Yeah. We need one. You can be the pirate and I’ll be the princess, and you can steal the cake.”
He hesitated, then stood up slowly, brushing the dirt off his shorts. “I guess that’s okay.”
“What’s your name?” you asked.
“Sirius.”
“Like serious?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, not like that!”
You giggled. “I’m Y/N.”
“Hi, Y/N.”
“Come on, pirate.”
You took his hand.
The moment you dragged him into the yard, everything changed. He didn’t say much at first, didn’t even run around like the other kids. But when the food came out, he came to life.
To say that Sirius ate a lot at your birthday party would have been an understatement. He devoured two plates of sandwiches, three slices of cake, and so many biscuits your dad raised an eyebrow.
At first, it was funny.
Then it wasn’t.
Your mother came over gently. “Sirius, sweetheart, do your parents know you’re here?”
And everything stopped.
Sirius went stiff. His shoulders locked. His hand, holding a biscuit, dropped slightly. His cup of juice slipped from the table and shattered on the patio. Orange juice spread across the concrete.
His eyes went wide. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— I’ll clean it, I can do it, I didn’t mean to break it, I swear—”
Your mother was already kneeling beside him. “Sirius. It’s okay. It’s just juice, love. It’s just a cup.”
He was still babbling apologies under his breath.
“Sirius,” she said again, pulling him into a soft hug. His whole body locked up for a second, then slumped. “You’re alright. You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.”
You stood frozen, watching. Something strange settled in your chest, something heavy and confused.
Later that evening, when the sun had begun to fade and the candles on your cake had melted down into puddles of wax, Sirius came up to you, eyes a little less stormy.
“Thanks for the cake,” he mumbled. “And the pirate job.”
“Want to play more tomorrow?” you asked. “We can go to the lake, there is a swing there. We can fight monsters!”
He nodded, just once. “Okay.”
When he walked home—barefoot, carrying a napkin full of biscuits for someone—your parents pulled you aside.
“Sweetheart,” your mother said, brushing your hair back. “Where did Sirius come from?”
You pointed down the road. “The black house. Two doors that way.”
Your father nodded slowly, and exchanged a look with your mother.
“If Sirius ever needs somewhere to go,” he said gently, “if he needs to come over for dinner, or stay the night, you bring him here. Okay?”
You frowned. “But I already did that, today.”
“I know,” your mother said. Her voice was soft. “Just promise us. If he needs to come over, you let him.”
It felt like a strange thing to promise. Wasn’t that obvious?
Still, you nodded. “Okay. I promise.”
-
When the memory faded, you blinked yourself back into the present. The sun had dipped lower, the lake gleaming gold and glassy beside you.
Sirius was looking at you again, but differently this time. His expression was quiet, unreadable, like he was trying to match the girl in the memory with the woman beside him now.
You glanced sideways. “What?”
He tilted his head. “Nothing. You’re just really, really pretty.”
Your step faltered slightly. The popsicle in your hand dripped unnoticed.
You laughed, flustered. “Oh, don’t say that out of nowhere.”
“But it’s true,” he said, bumping your shoulder. “Even with lemon on your chin.”
You wiped it quickly, cheeks burning. “You’re the worst.”
He smirked. “The worst pirate.”
You shook your head, smiling at the ground.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he stopped walking. Turned toward you.
You turned, too, not fully understanding, not fully ready.
But he kissed you.
His lips met yours softly, like a question asked in a language only the two of you understood. There was no rush, no push—just quiet, steady warmth. He tasted faintly of blueberry ice and something familiar you couldn’t quite name.
When he pulled away, you were still, stunned silent. Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, eyes wide, heart knocking against your chest like it had just remembered how to beat.
He noticed, of course he did.
His voice came low and amused. “Was that okay, or did I just commit some kind of unforgivable crime?”
You blinked, lips parted, but nothing came out at first. Then, quietly, like the truth might dissolve if spoken too loud, you said, “That was… my first kiss.”
His eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “Seriously?”
You nodded, a little slow, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I guess I just…”
He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes before it softened. Then came that familiar, lopsided grin—the one that always made the world feel slightly off its axis in the best possible way.
“Well,” he said, voice gentle but teasing, “I’m honored. And a little shocked, to be honest. A girl like you, in the city, has never been kissed before?”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now. “City boys weren’t exactly my type.”
He grinned slowly. “And what is your type, then?”
You grinned wide. “Pirates.”
He barked out a laugh, too loud for the quiet around you. “Well, good thing. I’m terrible at being a prince.”
You looked up at him, a little smile dancing on your lips. “There isn’t even a princess around here.”
“No pirate either,” he said, hands in his pockets.
Then he turned to the lake, still as a mirror, the sky blushing down onto its surface.
“Come on,” he said, reaching for your hand. “Let’s go back to Saturn.”
You laughed, breathless, letting him drag you through the grass until you were at the base of the tree. The swing still swayed slightly in the breeze.
He pulled you under its branches, into the shade of everything you used to be.
And then, grinning like a child again, he stood taller and cleared his throat. “Princess,” he said formally, “the seas are wild and the moon is high, but I have come to rescue you from the wicked storm!”
You blinked up at him, suppressing a laugh. “And who exactly are you?”
He bowed. “Your favorite pirate, of course. The one who sails from Saturn to Moon.”
You played along, tilting your chin and sweeping your arms out dramatically. “I demand treasure and tea before I agree to go anywhere.”
Sirius took your hand and spun you gently beneath the tree, the breeze lifting your hair. “You shall have both, princess. If you promise not to fall from the mast this time.”
You pretended to pout. “I did not fall. I jumped. And besides, I was rescuing you.”
He stepped closer, voice softer now. “Guess we keep rescuing each other, huh?”
You looked up, something catching in your chest.
And then, without hesitation, he touched your cheek again and whispered, not in character this time, “Love you to the moon, and to Saturn.”
You smiled, slow and sure, heart stammering in your ribs. “Love you to Saturn, and to the moon.”
Somewhere between Saturn and the moon, in that quiet seam of sky where make-believe dares to become real, you reached out your hand to a boy sitting alone beneath the trees.
You had just turned seven, barefoot and fearless, your crown of summer leaves slipping low on your brow. And though you couldn’t have known it then, that single, innocent gesture would become the anchor he held onto for years.
You didn’t know that twelve summers later, it would be you who led him out of the haunted house. That it was your voice, familiar and full of light, that pulled him back from the brink, when the grief of losing his brother turned the world hollow and the monsters in his bloodline came far too close.
But that’s the thing—you never needed to know. You were a princess, after all, and Sirius had always vowed to protect you.
He thought, sometimes, about telling you. About how he still wanted to be your pirate, how he had never stopped, but it could wait. There was time, time to say that even if he was never a prince, he had always been yours. And always would be.
Passed down like folk songs, your love lasts so long.
a/n: this was so gut-wrenching to write omg </3 i can't write kids dialogue for shit, sadly! i feel like this could have a part two possibly? either ways i loved this
Summary: Nearly 10 years ago, you left home after a bad incident with your parents, Rick and Lori Grimes. In that time, you married a redneck down south and started a family. But it all came crashing down when the dead started to walk.
Pairings: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 9.7k
Warnings: language, violence, miscarriage fears
PART 7
The days following that harrowing night with Negan was a blur of pain, sorrow and fear. Alexandria, once a beacon of hope and a semblance of normalcy in this world gone mad, now felt like a place of mourning. The air was thick with grief as you all grappled with the loss of Glenn and Abraham.
Maggie had gone to Hilltop after some complications with her pregnancy, Sasha went with her for support and Jesus promised to take care of her. You were all worried about her, but you were more worried for Daryl and Merle.
Were they even still alive?
They had to be. Negan needed them alive as bargaining chips, forcing you to do whatever he wanted. He wouldn't kill them, not yet anyway.
Rick was a shell of his former self. You could see the torment in his eyes, the guilt and helplessness eating away at him. He blamed himself for everything that happened with the Saviours, you knew it even if he hadn't admitted it. You didn't know how to help him, you didn't even know how to help yourself.
The sight of Negan's bat still haunted you, its blood-stained wood a grim reminder of what happened. Ricky and Dean were trying to be strong, but you knew losing Glenn and Abraham and having their father and Uncle Merle taken away was hurting them deeply because it was hurting you so badly.
The community needed strength, hope, and a leader to step up, but your father wasn’t in the right headspace. The people of Alexandria began looking at you for answers, for reassurance that everything would be okay. But how could you promise them anything when your world had been shattered and taken away?
Negan and the Saviours would return in a week's time to gather supplies. You had to be ready for that, however, not even four days after the lineup, a convoy of vehicles pulled up in front of Alexandria—it was the Saviours.
Their arrival sent a wave of dread through the community. People scattered, some rushing to hide, others to prepare for what was to come. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stood at the gates, trying to remain calm.
"Little pig, little pig, let me in!" Negan called out, his voice dripping with mockery.
Spencer was the first to reach the gate but he didn't open it as he spoke with Negan too quietly for you to hear as you hurriedly made your way over not trusting Spencer to handle the situation.
Your sons were following close behind, staying silent but eyeing Negan worriedly.
"Well, hello there, mama bear." Negan grinned, but when you stopped beside Spencer without so much as a greeting or indication of opening the gate, his grin shifted into an angry glare. "Do not make me have to ask."
"You said a week. You're early," Rick's voice spoke up from behind you.
You let out a small sigh of relief as your father appeared by your side before he stepped forward and pulled the gate open.
"I missed you," Negan smirked.
A walker stumbled out from the convoy of vehicles and Negan was quick to make a big song and dance about it as he took it out with his bat just as he had done to your friends a few days prior. You looked away at the sight, and reached down pulling Ricky and Dean behind you as if you could shield them from the pain you felt inside.
Negan rambled on about 'service' before he swaggered forward, Lucille resting casually on his shoulder. He passed the bat off to Rick getting him to hold the weapon. He reluctantly obeyed as Negan surveyed Alexandria.
The Saviours followed their leader through the gates of Alexandira, but you were so focused on Negan, you didn't even notice Daryl standing amongst them until your son called out for him.
"Dad!" Dean shouted.
Your head snapped up instantly and your breath caught in your throat as your eyes met Daryl's. His hair was dishevelled, his face gaunt, and eyes holding a haunted look that broke your heart. He was now wearing a filthy pair of pants and matching long sleeve shirt with the letter 'A' spray painted on the front in orange. He bore the marks of Negan's cruelty, cuts and bruises hidden behind the hair covering his face.
But there he stood, alive.
Daryl was alive.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you held them back. Every instinct was telling you to run to him, to hold him and promise everything would be alright, but you knew better. Any sudden move could trigger Negan's wrath, and that was a risk you couldn't afford to take.
Daryl's eyes flickered with a mix of relief and sorrow as he looked at you and the kids. He didn't dare move or speak, knowing the consequences all too well.
Dean tried to run to him, but you and Ricky held him back gently, your heart aching with the effort. Negan noticed the exchange and he chuckled, revelling in the silent torment he was inflicting.
"Well, well, looks like someone missed Daddy," he taunted, glancing between you and Daryl. "Ain't that just heartwarming?"
You tightened your grip on Ricky and Dean, your gaze hardening. "What do you want, Negan?"
"What do I want? How about a little respect, some gratitude for not bashing more of your friends' heads in?"
Rick took a step forward, not liking how much attention Negan was giving you and the boys. Negan turned his attention back to Daryl, motioning for one of his men to bring him forward.
"Why don't we give these fine folks a little family reunion?"
Daryl was shoved towards you, stumbling slightly but quickly regaining his footing. The sight of him so close, yet still so far, was almost unbearable.
Dean suddenly yanked his arm free from your grasp and rushed the remaining distance to his father and wrapped his arms around him. Ricky quickly followed and hugged Daryl too.
You were moving before you even registered it, Daryl's arms immediately wrapped around the boys, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he looked over at you. His gaze flickered down to your baby bump that was no longer hidden now that the secret was out before his eyes met yours once again.
"Daryl, I-" You began to say, your hand barely managing to grasp his shoulder before Negan cut you off.
"No. Nope!"
Negan suddenly grabbed you by the arm and hauled you away from Daryl roughly. You tried to fight his hold, but his fingers only tightened around your wrist like a vice making you wince. He pulled you closer to him, his presence looming and grip tightening.
"Here's how this is gonna work. Daryl is the help. You don't look at him, you don't talk to him, and I don't make you chop anything off of him or his brother back at the Sanctuary. Got it, mama?"
Your heart pounded in your chest as you met Negan's cold, calculating gaze. His smirk widened as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear.
"You follow my rules, and everyone's happy. You don't? Well, I think you know what happens then."
"Leave her alone, Negan," Rick growled, his fists tightening at his sides.
"Oh, don't worry," Negan replied, his tone almost too casual. "I'm not gonna hurt your daughter. As long as she behaves."
His grip on your wrist finally loosened, and he pushed you away roughly. You stumbled, but Rick's strong arms quickly caught you, steadying you. You looked up at him, seeing the worry etched in his features, and gave him a small, reassuring nod.
Daryl's eyes never left yours. You could see the conflict in his gaze, the need to protect you and the boys but also the knowledge that any wrong move could get someone killed.
"Get those kids away from him," Negan ordered.
Daryl quickly shielded the boys away from the Saviour that stepped forward. He whispered something to them before Ricky and Dean reluctantly let go of him and ran back over to you. You reached out, pulling Dean into your side as Ricky stood between you and Rick glaring up at Negan with a fire in his eye that reminded you of yourself.
Negan clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through Alexandria.
"Alright, let's see what goodies you got in the cupboard!"
The Saviours spread out, searching homes and taking inventory of supplies, their presence a dark cloud over the already grieving community. They took what they wanted, guns and ammunition too. There wasn't a single thing you could do to stop them, and you all knew it.
As the Saviours ransacked Alexandria, you kept your eyes on Daryl, silently promising that you would find a way to bring him home. No matter what it took.
-
That night you managed to put Ricky and Dean to bed in Merle's bedroom, the only one left in the house with a mattress after the Saviours' pillaging.
The boys had fallen asleep quickly, exhausted from the day's trauma, but you remained awake, your mind reeling from the events. You lingered by their side for a moment, brushing a stray lock of hair from Dean's forehead and then quietly left the room.
Your own exhaustion was overwhelming now that you didn't have to maintain the strong façade. The image of Daryl, hurt and paraded like a trophy by Negan, had broken you.
Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them away. You couldn't afford to break down, knowing once you did, you wouldn't be able to stop. The house was eerily silent, the remnants of the Saviours' invasion still evident in the scattered possessions and the empty spaces where your belongings once were.
You made your way to Rick's room, but hesitated at the door, your hand hovering over the handle. Your emotions were running all over the place. Maybe it was because you were pregnant and it was the hormones, but it didn't matter.
You needed your father right now.
It had been a long time since you felt a moment where you needed him. You had spent so long being independent after running away from home, you were used to not needing a parental figure, but right now... you needed your dad.
You knocked on the door gently, your hand trembling as you tried to hold yourself together. The door creaked open a few seconds later, and Rick's worried eyes met yours. Michonne was asleep on a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor where their mattress had once been, but you shifted your focus back to your father.
He didn't need to ask; he could see the pain in your eyes. Without a word, he opened his arms, and you stepped into the comforting embrace of your father.
"We'll get through this," he murmured, holding you tightly and rubbing your back gently. "We'll get Daryl and Merle back. I promise."
The tears you had been holding back all day finally spilled over, and you clung to him, letting the sobs wrack your body. He held you through it, and you allowed yourself to be vulnerable, letting out the fear and pain you had been holding in.
His steady heartbeat and the warmth of his hold grounded you, even as your tears soaked into his shirt. You cried until there were no more tears left, your body trembling with the aftermath of your pent-up anguish.
Eventually, Rick gently pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes searching your face with a mix of concern and determination. He glanced down at your baby bump, his worry deepening.
"Honey, have you eaten anything today?" he asked softly.
You shook your head, not trusting your voice at the moment. The truth was, you hadn't had time to think about food. The day had been a blur of terror and loss, and your own needs had been the last thing on your mind.
Rick sighed, his brow furrowing. "You need to take care of yourself, for the baby's sake," he said, his tone gentle yet firm. "Come on, let's get you something to eat."
He guided you towards the kitchen, not waiting for a reply. The cupboards were half-empty, their contents strewn across the floor, but Rick managed to find a can of soup that had been overlooked.
You sat down at the table silently, your hand cradling your small baby bump. Rick was quiet as he prepared the food before placing a steaming bowl in front of you. You picked up the spoon with a trembling hand, the scent of the soup filling the air.
"Do you remember that time we went camping with Shane?" he asked suddenly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
It had been a long time since your father talked about Uncle Shane. The two of them used to be as close as brothers, but you heard about everything that had happened between them when the world ended.
But it was still nice to hear him mention Shane again, especially with a smile on his face.
“You insisted on making the soup over the campfire,” he continued to say. “But ended up spilling it and burning yourself."
You managed a small laugh, recalling the memory. "Yeah, you and Uncle Shane both freaked out. You drove me all the way back home even though it was the middle of the night just so I could cuddle my stuffed bear to make me feel better."
"Yeah, I did." He nodded, his expression softening. "I'm your dad, it's my job to look after you. And that still stands. You might be an adult now, but you're still my baby girl. I will always look after you, and your boys, and that unborn baby, okay? I'm here for you, Y/N."
A lump formed in your throat as you nodded, tears welling up again. You continued to sip the hot soup, each spoonful warming you from the inside out. Your father's words echoed in your mind, and you felt an overwhelming swell of emotions—gratitude, love, a fierce longing for the normalcy that now seemed so far away.
"I... I'm scared, Dad," You whispered, your voice trembling.
"I know. Me too," he admitted. "But we'll get through this. I promise."
Tears once again fell freely down your face, mingling with the remnants of the soup. Rick laid a comforting hand on your shoulder, standing protectively by your side in silent comfort. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.
The quiet moment between you was interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps descending the stairs. Carl appeared, rubbing his tired eye, looking every bit the sleepy teenager. His footsteps slowed as he took in the scene before him.
"Hey," your brother said softly, his voice still groggy from sleep. "What's going on?"
Rick straightened up, giving Carl a reassuring smile. "Just having a late-night snack. Come join us."
Carl nodded before crossing the room and sitting down at the table opposite you, his worried gaze meeting yours.
"You okay, sis?"
You gave him a small, albeit watery, smile. "Yeah, just... I'm fine."
Carl raised an eyebrow, not buying your lie in the slightest, but he didn't call you out on it though. He was good like that.
Rick moved to the stove, fetching another bowl and ladling some soup into it. He placed it in front of Carl, who frowned in confusion.
"It's, like, what? Midnight? Why am I getting fed soup?"
"Don't make me eat alone," You said, glancing over at him with pleading eyes.
Carl sighed dramatically before scooping up a spoonful into his mouth and shaking his head. "The things I do for you."
Rick chuckled softly, sitting back down at the table and looking at his kids with a fond smile.
The three of you sat in comfortable silence, and for a brief second, the outside world and the Saviours were nearly forgotten as you enjoyed this rare moment with your family.
-
Time blurred together.
Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days. Alexandria was on high alert and slowly began running low on supplies. Between the Saviours taking half of everything, and the community trying to survive, there wasn't much left anymore.
Sometime during the week, Tara returned home from her two-week supply run, only to discover that Denise was dead. You found her on the floor of the infirmary and held her while she cried. Tara spent a lot of time with you in the infirmary after that, trying to help where she could and to step up now that the only other person in the community with medical knowledge was gone.
Groups went out to scavenge for supplies, but most came home with little to show for their efforts. Rick and Aaron had gone out yesterday to try hit a few places further away, they were meant to be back sometime today, but you couldn't stop worrying.
So, you busied yourself in the infirmary, trying to keep your mind occupied, but that was easier said than done. You kept thinking about Daryl and Merle, probably hurt and scared with the Saviours. You needed to get them back, but you didn't even know where to start or how to attempt a jail break them from Negan's fortress.
The door to the infirmary suddenly burst open, startling you from your thoughts as you turned around to find a frantic looking Dean rushing inside. Your stomach dropped, knowing something was wrong.
"Ricky is gone!"
Wait, what?
Tara looked up from the medical book she was studying, her eyes widening and mirroring your own shock.
"What are you talking about?" You asked carefully, trying to remain calm.
"He's gone. I thought... I thought he was with Carl all day upstairs reading comic books, but they're not there. I... I looked everywhere," Dean hurriedly explained.
"I'm sure they're here somewhere," You reassured before glancing to Tara who was already waving you towards the door.
"Go. I'll hold down the fort here."
You nodded your thanks before following Dean out the building. The house was eerily empty except for Judith fast asleep in her cot and Olivia sitting on the couch babysitting. She didn't know where Ricky or Carl had gone and continuously apologised for letting them sneak out. It wasn't her fault though. They were teenagers, it was what teenagers did. Although, you had a horrible feeling that this wasn't just two teenagers having fun. They were up to something.
"I'm going out to look for them. Dean, I need you to stay here with Olivia, okay? I'm taking a walkie, so if they come back-"
A knock on the front door stopped you midsentence. You rushed across the living room hoping it was them, but as you opened the front door you were met with Negan.
The Saviours were here.
You had been too distracted to hear them arrive, and you would have been annoyed with yourself if you weren't so downright terrified now. Negan grinned as you opened the door, and you glared up at him as he sauntered straight past you into the house without an invitation.
You didn't have much time to dwell on it before Ricky and Carl stepped forward both looking guilty and worried.
Wait, they had been with Negan? Did they go to the Sanctuary?
"Where the hell have you two been?" You hissed quietly, grabbing them both by the collars of their shirts and pulling them into the house.
"Take a guess," Carl muttered in frustration.
You glared at your brother, but could see the fear behind his annoyed façade, and your expression softened. You glanced down at Ricky who was staring at the ground clearly knowing he was in trouble.
"Are you both okay?"
They nodded silently.
You sighed before pulling them both into a tight hug. Ricky immediately hugged you back and Carl hesitated for a second before melting into your embrace.
"Where's Rick?" Negan suddenly asked.
The three of you pulled apart as you closed the front door and turned to face Negan properly. He was glancing around the house in amusement before his gaze settled on you.
"You can't just walk in-"
"Doooon't care. Where's Rick?" he repeated, cutting you off.
"Out scavenging, for you," You answered, spitting the last few words out bitterly.
Negan grinned. "Cool. I'll wait."
He strolled into the living room, making himself at home on your couch. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Make yourself at home, why don't you," You muttered sarcastically.
"Don't mind if I do," he replied, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. "Got anything to drink around here?"
You shot him a withering look. "Sure, why don't I just whip up a five-star dinner while I'm at it?"
Ricky and Carl stood by quietly, exchanging uncertain glances. Negan merely chuckled, undeterred by your sarcasm.
"I knew I liked you for a reason," he said with a wink.
You bit back a retort, feeling the tension in the room mount. The sooner Rick returned, the better.
"I can go make some of that powdered lemonade," Olivia suddenly said, walking into the room followed by Dean.
Negan glanced over at her, his gaze shifting to Dean with a curious twinkle in his eye that you did not like.
"That would be great, Olivia. Boys, why don't you go help her?" You suggested, nodding towards the front door as you looked over at Ricky, Dean and Carl.
You didn't want them in this house with Negan. The three of them hesitated, because as much as you didn't want them around Negan, they didn't want to leave you alone with him either.
"Nope. The boys stay. She goes. Take your time. Make it good," Negan ordered, pointing to Olivia.
You clenched your jaw but didn't argue as you watched her leave the house before you turned back to Negan who was now standing up from the couch, his attention still focused on Dean.
He took a step closer to your youngest, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and calculation. The room seemed to shrink around you as you watched him, every muscle in your body tense. Ricky shifted a little closer to his brother protectively while Carl stood nearby, glaring at Negan.
"Tell me, kid," he said, his voice dripping with false sweetness, "what's your name?"
"Dean," he replied, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes.
"Dean," Negan repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth as if savouring it. "Well, Dean-o, you look like a smart kid. You know who I am?"
He nodded slowly. "You're Negan."
The man’s laughter filled the room, a sound that grated on your nerves. "That's right. I'm Negan. And you know what that means, don't you?" He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing.
Dean didn't flinch, but you could see the tension in his jaw as he nodded.
Negan straightened up, his gaze shifting back to you. "Smart kid," he remarked, almost approvingly. "You did good, keeping this one alive. Ricky on the other hand, not so smart. You see, him and Carl here snuck into one of my delivery trucks and tried to take me down. Killed a bunch of my men... you're lucky I don't kill kids."
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting to what he said. You had about a million questions for Carl and Ricky, but it was gonna have to wait.
You stepped forward, positioning yourself between Negan and your sons. "What the hell do you want from us?
"Fiery, aren't we?" He chuckled, taking a step closer to you. "I like that. I like someone who has a bit of spark."
"You don't scare me, Negan."
He leaned in, his face inches from yours. "Oh, I think I do. But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun, does it?"
"What do you want from us?" You repeated, ignoring his comment.
"Well, I'm here to have a little chat with Rick. But seeing as he's not home yet, I figured I'd get to know the rest of the fam. And you, darling, are quite the entertaining distraction. You know, it looks like I'm gonna be here for a while, awaiting your fearless father's return. And if you'd like, I think it would be enjoyable to screw your brains out. I mean, if, you know, you're agreeable to it."
Without thinking, your hand shot out and connected with Negan's cheek, the sharp crack echoing through the room. The moment your palm made contact, your mind raced with panic. Oh, that was a bad reaction. What had you just done?
Time seemed to stand still as Negan slowly turned his head back to you, a grin spreading across his face. Instead of anger, he seemed almost delighted.
"Fiery indeed," he growled, his eyes twinkling with dark amusement. "I am about 50% more into you now. Just saying."
Carl took a hesitant step forward, his fists clenched by his side. Ricky mimicked his action, while Dean stood back watching the scene unfold with wide eyes.
Their movements didn't go unnoticed. Negan glanced over at them and grinned.
"Don't worry, kids. I'm not gonna hurt anyone... unless I have to. Now, why don't we all sit down and wait for your fearless leader to come home?"
You remained where you stood, your heart pounding. Negan's grin remained plastered on his face, but there was a new glint in his eye, one that told you he was far from displeased.
"Come on," he urged, waving his hand towards the living room. "Let's make ourselves comfortable. You too mama, you need to rest, right?"
Negan's eyes shifted down to your baby bump and you placed your hand over it subconsciously causing him to smirk. You turned and walked into the living room, the boys following closely behind.
Negan, ever the showman, took his time to survey the room, admiring the decorations as though he were a guest at a dinner party. He finally settled into Rick's favourite armchair, crossing his legs leisurely.
"Now, this is more like it," he said, stretching his arms over the back of the chair. "Home sweet home, right?"
You could see Carl's jaw clenched tight, his knuckles white as he struggled to keep his composure. Dean's gaze flickered between you and Negan, his anxiety barely contained. Ricky, ever the protector, stood closest to you, his body a shield.
"So," Negan drawled, "how's life been treating y'all here in the grand ol' Rick Grimes' Kingdom? Can't say I approve of the decor, but hey, it's cozy enough."
"You didn't come here for small talk, Negan. Why are you waiting around for my father? Why not just come back tomorrow?" You asked cautiously.
Negan chuckled. "Why am I doing this? Because I can. Because it's a new world. And in this world, you gotta remind people who's in charge. You're smart. You get it, don't you? This is all just a game, and I'm just making sure everyone knows the rules."
"So, everything is just a game to you? Killing my friends, taking my husband and brother-in-law, that's part of your game?" You questioned, unable to keep the anger out of your tone.
"Oh, darling, let's not get melodramatic. If you want to survive, if you want that unborn baby to survive, you've got to play by the rules. My rules." He paused, letting his words sink in, before turning his gaze to Ricky. "And you, tough guy? You trying to be the knight in shining armour here? Think you can protect your mama from me?"
Ricky's posture stiffened, but he didn't respond. His silence only seemed to amuse Negan further.
"Look at you, all brave and silent. I could almost admire it, if it weren't so damn predictable." He chuckled with a shake of his head.
Dean shifted uneasily, his eyes darting from Negan to you, the tension in the room thickening with each passing second. Carl remained motionless, his jaw still clenched, his eye burning with a mixture of fear and fury.
Negan leaned back in the chair, his demeanour once again relaxed and casual.
"How's the little one doing? You must be a few months along, huh?"
The sudden shift in conversation and question caught you off guard. You instinctively placed your hand on your baby bump again, trying to shield your unborn child from his gaze.
"We're fine," You answered curtly, hoping to end the conversation there.
But Negan wasn't done. He never was.
"Good, good. You take care of that little one. Because in this world, you never know what's gonna happen next." He smirked, his eyes drinking you in. "So, what do you think your daddy will say when he gets here? Think he'll be happy to see me?"
"I think," You said slowly, "that he won't be happy about you threatening his family."
“Threatening? No, no, no. This isn't a threat. It's a promise. And you better believe I'll keep it."
-
The afternoon dragged on, and there was still no sign of Rick. You would have been worried that something had gone wrong on the supply run, but you were too focused on Negan being inside your house and the Saviours standing out in the streets of Alexandria with guns to worry about much else at the moment.
Negan had gotten bored with sitting in the living room and dragged the boys around the house for a 'grand tour.' He found an old razor in the upstairs bathroom and decided to use it. Negan clean shaven was an odd look, but you made sure not to comment on it.
"Holy cow, you Dixon's are like rabbits, huh?" Negan's voice called out in clear amusement.
You turned around on the couch in confusion, but your heart stopped when you saw him walking downstairs with Judith in his arms. Olivia had hidden her cot in the laundry, but it seemed like he had found her anyway. Carl trailed behind Negan, watching him cautiously, not trusting him with the little girl.
"She's a Grimes actually," You corrected.
"Grimes or Dixon, it doesn't matter, it's all the same anyway." Negan shrugged, glancing around the living room. He pointed to you, then to Ricky and Dean on the couch beside you, then to your belly, then to Carl before looking down at Judith. "Wow, there really are a lot of you kids, huh?"
None of you dignified his comment with a response but Negan didn't seem to care, too busy smiling at Judith in his arms.
Olivia returned to the house with freshly made lemonade before Negan decided that it was time for dinner and took over the kitchen to make spaghetti.
It wasn't long before he started to get agitated that Rick still hadn't gotten back, but then Spencer showed up at the front door with a bottle of whiskey for Negan and that seemed to calm him down. You weren't exactly a fan of Spencer, but you were grateful when he took Negan outside and away from your family.
The Saviours dragged a pool table out onto the road in front of the house, him and Spencer now playing a game of 8 Ball while waiting for Rick. The game had drawn in quite a crowd of Saviours and Alexandrians alike. You sat on the porch steps, not letting Negan out of your sight. Ricky and Dean sat either side of you while Carl sat on the porch swing beside Olivia.
Spencer was bad mouthing Rick during the entire game, trying to talk Negan into making him the leader of Alexandria instead of your father. But it was clear Negan wasn't buying it, so you remained silent and watched cautiously.
"You know what I'm thinking, Spencer?" Negan asked, while he lined up his shot on the pool table. "I'm thinking how Rick threatened to kill me, how he clearly hates my guts. But he is out there right now, gathering shit for me to make sure I don't hurt any of the fine people that live here. He is swallowing his hate and getting shit done. That takes guts."
Negan took his turn before lowering the pool cue on the table and turning his attention completely to Spencer. He took a few steps closer to the other man before continuing.
"And then there's you. The guy who waited for Rick to be gone so he could sneak over and talk to me to get me to do his dirty work, so he could take Rick's place. So, I got to ask, if you wanna take over, why not just kill Rick yourself and just take over?"
Spencer faltered. "No, no. I didn't- I don't-"
"You know what I'm thinking? 'Cause I have a guess." He leaned in closer to him and whispered, "it's because you got no guts."
Negan plunked a knife straight into Spencer's stomach before anyone could react and sliced it across, spilling the man's guts out as he collapsed onto the bitumen road below in a pool of blood.
You were on your feet in an instant, ushering Ricky and Dean back up the porch steps behind the safety of the railing. You drew your own knife from your belt cautiously and descended the steps until you were standing on the curb near the pool table.
"Oh, how embarrassing. There they are. They were inside you the whole time. You did have guts. I've never been so wrong in my whole life!" Negan exclaimed dramatically with a sickening grin.
The silence that followed was deafening. Nobody dared to move or say anything as they stared down at Spencers lifeless body in pure horror. Negan grinned, relishing in their fear as he turned around and picked up Lucille from where the bat was leant against the pool table, but then his gaze flashed towards you.
"Easy, mama bear. We don't want no more surprises, do we?"
You clenched your jaw, remaining silent as your fingers tightened around the knife but you didn't move, and Negan's smirk widened before he turned back to address the crowd.
"Now, someone oughta get up here and clean this mess up," he ordered, as he glanced around waving his bat in the air. "Anyone want to finish the game? C'mon. Anybody? Anybody? C'mon, I was winning!"
A crack of a gunshot cut through the tense air of Alexandria.
You flinched and Rosita stood in front of Negan, handgun raised and a fierce look in her eye that quickly turned to panic when she realised that the bullet hit Lucille and not Negan.
Oh, that was bad. That was really bad.
"Shit! What the shit?!" Negan shouted, looking at the bullet lodged into the wooden bat before he glared at Rosita who had already been pinned to the ground by a Saviour. "You just- you tried to kill me?! You shot Lucille!"
"She got in the way," Rosita grunted.
Negan turned away, pacing and breathing heavily as he tried to keep himself under control. You took a small hesitant step forward, the knife still clutched tightly in your hand. Something was going to happen, no way would Negan let this go unpunished.
You watched as he knelt down and picked up the bullet casing from the ground inspecting it closely before he turned back and glared down at Rosita.
"What is this? What is this? This little bad boy made from scratch? Look at those crimps. This was homemade. You may be stupid, darling, but you showed some real ingenuity here."
Wait, how the hell did Rosita make a bullet?
Negan continued to ramble on, but you zoned out his voice as you stared at Rosita on the road. Arat had a knife against her cheek, blood trickling down her face.
Rosita was smart, she was skilled, but she couldn't make bullets. Your eyes shifted over the crowd before landing on Eugene standing nearby with a look of absolute terror on his face. Bingo. And there was your bullet maker. That skill would come in handy, you noted silently to yourself.
"Fine. Have it your way. Arat, kill somebody," Negan ordered.
Those words snapped you out of your thoughts in a flash, your eyes widening in panic.
"No! It was me, no!" Rosita screamed.
Arat dropped the knife, drawing a handgun from her holster before spinning around towards you. She barely gave herself time to aim as the barrel shifted past you towards the porch and squeezed the trigger.
"No!" Your scream mixed with Rosita's as you spun around just in time to see Olivia collapse with a bullet through her head.
Ricky, Dean and Carl stood beside her, their faces pale in utter horror. She nearly killed one of the boys. She barely aimed, she just turned and fired. She could have killed your sons or brother. Hell, the bullet could have missed them all and gone through the window and hit Judith asleep inside.
"You son of a bitch!" You growled, anger taking over the rational side of your brain.
Within a second, you had Arat pinned to the ground just how she had Rosita pinned only moments ago. The blade of your hunting knife pushing against her throat.
"You could've killed my kids!" You hissed, pressing the blade down harder drawing a thin line of blood as she winced. "You could've killed my brother. My baby sister! I should slit your throat for it, right now."
"Y/N!" Carl's voice yelled in a warning.
Suddenly, you were tackled to the ground by a Saviour. Your back collided with the bitumen, hard, knocking the wind out of you as the knife slipped from your grasp. You tried to get up, but a fist collided with the side of your face, forcing you back down in a daze.
"No!" One of the boys shouted, but you barely heard them above the blood rushing in your ears.
A boot suddenly collided against your stomach causing you to cry out in pain as you instinctively tried to curl in on yourself to protect your baby. The kicks didn't stop though, the steel caps hitting your side and back relentlessly.
"Enough!" Negan's stern voice snapped. "She's fucking pregnant. What the hell is wrong with you?!"
The pain seared through your body, each breath a sharp agony as you struggled to inhale. Negan's voice cut through the noise like a blade, and the blows ceased abruptly. The Saviour who had been mercilessly kicking you was yanked away, and you felt the air shift as the pressure lifted from your battered body.
"Get back!" Negan marched over, kneeling beside you, his face a mixture of fury and something else—regret? "Christ, are you okay? You're as tough as nails, but you shouldn't have done that. Damnit."
You couldn't find the strength to respond, the pain and shock rendering you momentarily speechless.
Around you, the chaos seemed to pause, all eyes on the scene unfolding. Ricky, Dean, and Carl rushed to your side, their faces etched with worry and panic. Carl dropped to his knees, his hands hovering uncertainly over you, wanting to help but not knowing how.
Negan stared at you for a moment, a flash of emotion in his eyes before he stood up, his gaze shifting to Arat, who was now standing with a hand pressed against the cut on her neck.
"You." He pointed at her. "We need to have a serious talk later. That is not how we handle things people!"
Lying on the cold, unforgiving ground, you wrapped one arm protectively around your stomach, while trying to prop yourself up with the other. Each breath felt like shards of glass slicing through your chest, but you forced yourself to focus on breathing steadily.
"We had an agreement!" Your father’s voice shouted.
"Rick! Look, everybody, it's Rick!" Negan announced happily.
You glanced over as your father pushed his way through the crowd, his hard eyes glued to Negan's before he suddenly noticed you on the ground and he froze. His eyes flicked from you to Negan, then back to you again, a storm of emotions brewing within him. He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch your face gently.
"Are you okay?" His voice was a shaken whisper.
You managed a nod, body shaking from pain and adrenaline. Rick's jaw clenched, and his gaze hardened as he looked up at Negan, fury dancing in his eyes.
"What did you do to her?! What the hell happened here?!"
Negan shrugged nonchalantly, though his eyes betrayed a glimmer of concern. "Just a little misunderstanding, Rick. But don't worry, I've got it under control."
"This is your idea of control?" he spat, his hands tightening into fists.
"Rick, how about a 'thank you'? I just bent over backwards to show you how reasonable I am. Your kid and grandkid, they hid in one of my trucks and machine-gunned a bunch of my men down, and I brought them home, safe and sound, and I fed them spaghetti."
Rick gritted his teeth, glancing up at Carl and Ricky briefly before focusing back on you while Negan continued to ramble in the background.
"Another one of your people, well, he wanted me to kill you and put him in charge. I took him out... for you. Another one, here, she shot Lucille, trying to kill me just now," he said, pointing at Rosita before looking to where Olivia laid motionless. "So, I gave you one less mouth to feed. And by looking at her, that mouth did some major damage. Now, personally, I wouldn't have picked her to be the one to go, but Arat... I don't know, didn't trust her."
"What the hell happened to my daughter?!" Rick growled angrily, glaring over his shoulder at Negan.
"Now that... that, granted, that shouldn't have happened. But, Y/N, here... well, she did break a rule. She got a little upset that Arat shot Olivia so close to her kids. Now, I can understand that. Angry mother, pregnancy hormones making her act out, I get it. I'm a reasonable man, so I wasn't going to punish her... this time. But one of my men seemed to think otherwise. Don't you worry, Rick, I took care of that real quick."
"Not quick enough," he snapped. "Your shit's waiting for you at the gate. Just go."
"Sure thing, Rick. Right after I find the guy or gal that made this bullet."
You dismissed Negan's voice as he questioned the group about the homemade bullet. Ricky, Dean and Carl hovered around you anxiously, but you kept your focus on Rick, using him as an anchor as you forced yourself to breathe through the sharp pain across your midsection.
You were fine. The baby was fine. You both had to be fine. Everything was fine.
"I'm gonna be relieving you of your bullet maker, Rick, that and whatever you left for me at the front gate," Negan continued to say glancing at Eugene. "And however much you scavenged, it's not good enough, because you're still in a serious, serious hole after today. Let's move out!"
The Saviours all began walking down the road towards the front gate, Negan following behind with Lucille slung over his shoulder casually. He glanced back at you briefly, his eyes meeting yours, a hint of guilt flashing through them before he turned around and kept walking.
"Where are you hurt? Are you... the baby..." Rick was unable to finish his sentence as his gaze shifted back down to you, his eyes now shimmering with unshed tears once the Saviours left.
"I... I'm fine," You winced, trying to sit up.
"Easy. Easy," he said, gently helping you.
"You're not fine," Carl snapped worriedly. "You were kicked multiple times."
Rick's eyes widened. "We need to get you to the infirmary, now."
"No," You protested, wincing as you tried to push yourself up. "Our infirmary doesn't have the equipment to check on the baby properly. There's no point going there."
Rick's face tightened with worry, but he didn't argue. Instead, he helped you stand, his arm securely around your waist to support you. As you began to walk, a sharp pain shot through your abdomen, causing you to gasp and clutch your side. Rick tightened his grip on you, his face etched with concern.
"Is she going to be okay? The baby?" Dean spoke up in fear.
"I'm fine, honey. Just a little bruised," You reassured.
The look on Rick and Carl's face told you that they you weren't fine, even Ricky seemed to hesitated sensing you were lying. None of them called you out on it, at least not aloud.
Rick guided you back to the house dismissing the Alexandrians still scattered around the place trying to comprehend what the Saviours had just done.
Each step sent sharp jolts of pain through you, and you couldn't help but wince with every movement. The fear for your baby gnawed at your insides more than the physical pain did. What if the kicks had done more harm than you could feel right now? What if the baby wasn't okay? The uncertainty and the inability to know for sure was eating you alive.
"Boys, go and get some towels and ice," Rick instructed, glancing over at them. "Carl, get some water."
They all nodded and scurried off as Rick helped you lay down on the couch, his hands gentle but firm as he adjusted the cushions to make you more comfortable. He knelt beside you, gently brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, his touch tender and reassuring.
"How are you really?" he asked, once the boys were out of ear shot.
Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them away, not wanting to show just how scared you were. Your fathers expression broke at the sight of you in clear distress, but you didn't say anything, you weren't sure if you could even if you wanted to.
Instead, you reached down with shaky hands and carefully pulled your shirt up. The sight of the dark bruises already forming over your stomach stole your breath away. The mottled shades of purple and blue starkly contrasted against your skin.
"Oh God," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "We need to get you to Hilltop-"
"It's going to be dark soon. It's... it's too dangerous," You argued, shaking your head as you gently caressed your baby bump.
"I don't care. You need-"
"Dad, it's too dangerous. I won't be the reason more people die today."
"Your baby-"
"I know," You whispered, your voice breaking as you blinked back tears. "I know. The pain... I think it's just my ribs and not..."
You didn't need to finish that sentence and Rick simply nodded, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain his composure. He placed a hand gently over yours on your stomach, his touch feather light.
The boys returned one by one, Carl with a glass of water, Ricky and Dean with towels and ice packs. You quickly pulled your shirt back down not wanting to worry them more than they already were.
But they froze when they saw your tears, and Rick quickly guided them into action. Carl handed you the water, his eyes never leaving your face as if trying to gauge how serious your condition was.
Dean and Ricky handed their items to Rick who wrapped the towel around the icepack before gently placing it over the side of your stomach where he knew the worst of the bruising was. The coldness brought a brief respite from the throbbing pain, but it did nothing to ease the fear gnawing at your heart.
Rick spoke quietly to the boys, instructing them to stay close but give you some space. They nodded, their young faces set in expressions far too serious for their age. You could hear them murmuring to each other as they moved to a nearby room, their voices a low hum in the background.
Rick stayed by your side, his hand holding yours tightly as he knelt beside the couch.
"First thing in the morning, we go to Hilltop. We make sure you both are okay and then we prepare to fight."
-
As dawn broke, the group prepared for the journey to Hilltop. You settled into the passenger seat of the van, Ricky and Dean huddled together in the back with Carl, Tara, Rosita and Michonne. Your hand instinctively rested over your baby bump, a protective gesture against the uncertainty ahead.
The drive to Hilltop was long and arduous. The once familiar route now seemed foreign, fraught with dangers at every turn as if just waiting for the Saviours to show up. The silence in the car was punctuated only by the low rumble of the engine and the occasional murmur of concern from the boys. Your thoughts raced as you glanced out the window, the landscape blurring past.
The familiar walls of Hilltop came into view and before you knew it, you were stepping out the vehicle as the gates creaked open slowly, revealing the familiar sombre faces of its residents. Maggie stood at the forefront, and relief washed over you at the sight of her alive and seemingly okay.
The group of you slowly entered Hilltop. Rick walked in step beside you, his hand resting on your back protectively. Maggie met you halfway, and Rick lowered his hand from you before pulling her into a tight embrace.
Your heart fluttered at the sight, but grief swelled within you at the reminder that Glenn was no longer here for her.
"You're okay?" Rick asked, pulling away from Maggie.
She nodded. "I'm okay. The baby's okay. All of us."
"You were right from the start," he continued to say. "You told us to get ready to fight. I didn't listen, and I couldn't. I can now."
Just as you were about to hug Maggie, a familiar figure emerged from behind the trailers with Jesus.
Daryl Dixon.
Your breath caught in your throat when you saw him. He looked worn but undeniably alive.
How did he get here? How did he escape the Sanctuary? You had so many questions but couldn't ask a single one as tears burned in the back of your eyes.
"Daryl," You breathed, emotions overwhelming you.
He moved towards you swiftly, his expression breaking as tears shimmered in his eyes. Ricky and Dean sprinted over to him in an instant, and Daryl knelt down and scooped them up, one in each arm, like he used to do when they were younger.
The boys clung to their father, mumbling how much they missed him as Daryl held them and closed his eyes, fighting back the tears threatening to spill.
Tears trickled down your face in a steady stream, and you bit your bottom lip trying to keep it from trembling.
Eventually, Daryl lowered the boys to the ground before he shifted his focus to you. The hair covering his face did little to hide the glistening in his eyes as he closed the distance between you.
He pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close as if to reassure himself that you were real and safe. Rick stepped back to give you both space, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I thought... I thought I'd never see you again," You whispered, voice breaking.
His arms tightened around you, his embrace warm and comforting, but you couldn't stop the pained wince that escaped your lips. Your body still bruised and battered.
Daryl instantly pulled back in concern, his hand shifting down to gently caress your stomach.
"Are you okay? The baby?" he asked, his voice rough but filled with worry.
"I..." You trailed off.
How were you meant to answer that question when you didn't even know the answer yourself?
Rick stepped forward. "Daryl, she was hurt, beaten. She's okay, but the baby... we don't... we don't know."
"The hell ya mean, 'you don't know?'" Daryl snapped, shooting a wild glare at Rick before he looked back to you in panic. "What happened? What..."
"Dr. Carson is in the medical trailer," Jesus suddenly spoke up, overhearing the conversation.
Maggie nodded, her eyes filled with sudden worry as she looked down at Daryl's hand on your stomach before motioning for you all to follow her. Rick instructed the boys to stay with Michonne and although Ricky and Dean looked like they wanted to argue, Carl shook his head silently at them and they kept their mouths reluctantly shut.
Inside the infirmary, Dr. Carson quickly took charge after you explained the pain and showed him the bruises across your midsection. Daryl looked ready to explode in anger and fear as he saw the extent of the damage on your body.
"We'll do an ultrasound first to check on the baby," Dr. Carson explained, his voice calm and reassuring. "And then I need to examine your injuries, okay?"
You nodded, taking a few deep calming breaths. Maggie hovered by your side as you laid down on the bed gingerly. Daryl and Rick both watched anxiously as the doctor set up the equipment. Your husbands' eyes were fixed on the bruises that marred your skin, his jaw clenching when he noticed the boot shaped mark across your ribs.
Something in him suddenly snapped and he turned, rounding on Rick and pinning him up against the wall of the trailer.
"You best tell me what the hell happened!" he growled, breathing heavily.
"Daryl!" You shouted, quickly sitting up but the sudden movement made the pain flare across your midsection.
"Easy," Maggie warned, gently easing you back down.
Rick held up his hand towards you, silently telling you that it was okay. He stared straight at Daryl, not trying to fight him as he spoke in a calm voice.
"The Saviours happened."
Daryl gritted his teeth. "What did they do to her? Where the fuck were you when it happened, huh?"
"Look, Daryl, let me explain-"
Their heated conversation was suddenly cut short when the soft but unmistakable sound of a heartbeat filled the trailer from the ultrasound machine. The rhythmic thumping seemed to momentarily freeze everyone in place. Daryl's grip on Rick loosened, and he turned around.
"That's... that's the baby?" he whispered, his anger evaporating, replaced by a fragile hope.
"Yes, it is," Dr. Carson confirmed with a smile. "It's strong. Healthy."
Relief washed over you and Daryl took a hesitant step towards the bed, his eyes glued to where Dr. Carson held the transducer against your bump. The tension between him and your father dissolved into the background and Rick exhaled in relief, his posture relaxing. Maggie squeezed your hand reassuringly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Dr. Carson continued his examination, carefully assessing the bruises and swelling on your abdomen and back. Daryl hovered close by, his hands trembling slightly as he ran them through his hair.
"You have some significant bruising, and some cracked ribs," the doctor explained. "You'll need to rest and take it easy for a while, but you and the baby are going to be okay."
"Thank God," Daryl sighed, his voice breaking with emotion.
Dr. Carson left the trailer giving you a moment of privacy, Maggie and Rick following suit.
"Wait, Rick," Daryl called out.
Your father paused in the doorway.
Daryl reached behind his back and pulled out Rick's Colt Python from his waistband. Your jaw dropped in shock as he held it out towards Rick who seemed as surprised as you were. He stepped forward, grasping the familiar weapon and checking the chamber before looking back up at Daryl.
Neither of them said another word as they nodded at each other, the silence saying more than words ever could. Rick holstered the pistol before exiting the trailer and Daryl moved closer to you, sitting on the edge of your bed. His hand reach down, cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the tears you hadn't realised were falling.
"M'sorry I wasn't there to protect you both," he murmured.
You reached out, taking his trembling hand in yours, squeezing it gently. "It's not your fault, Daryl. We're okay. We're both okay."
He still looked worried, his brow furrowed with lingering anxiety. You squeezed his hand again as you stared up at him as if memorising his features. Daryl was okay. The baby was okay. That was all that mattered.
But then, a realisation struck you, and your eyes widened with sudden panic.
"Where's Merle?"
"He... he's still back there. I couldn't get him out 'n he told me to leave without him... to get back to you."
Your heart shattered. "We'll find a way to get him back. Rick will come up with a plan.”
"I ain't worried 'bout my brother. Ain't nobody can kill a Dixon, 'cept a Dixon," he responded gruffly. "I'm more worried 'bout you."
"Doc said we're both fine," You reassured.
"Actually, Grandpa said you had a few fractured ribs," Ricky's voice called out as him and Dean stepped into the trailer.
You smiled at the sight of your boys and waved them over. Dean reached your side first and gently embraced you, not wanting to hurt you any more than you already were.
"You're strong, Mum. You're gonna be okay,” he whispered.
You ruffled his hair affectionately. "Thanks, honey."
Ricky perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes serious. "Dad, what are we gonna do about Uncle Merle?"
Daryl's jaw tightened, but he took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure for the sake of the boys.
"We're gonna get him back," he insisted.
You nodded. "We will. We're a family, and we don't leave anyone behind."
Daryl grasped your hand again, and you saw the gratitude in his eyes. Negan and the Saviours outnumbered your group, but you weren't going to back down, and you would get Merle back. No matter what.
Okay genuinely need help finding a fic that I can’t get out of my head. I’m a little fuzzy with the details but I do know it’s at least a 2 part blurb from like a year or two ago. It’s Joel Miller (this fic was straight up smut with a semi plot) all I remember from the first part is that reader is working as a glory hole girl (basically they get paid with ration cards and it’s under the radar for obvious reasons) and somehow Joel ends up going and finding reader. He becomes extremely possessive over her and won’t share to the point where he gets yelled at by someone else for not sharing lol, reader is like super into it too cause typically she’s like bored out of her mind because everyone else just uses her to get themselves off but Joel makes sure to focus on her. And then when he pays and leaves behind his number it transports us to the part two where reader debate’s seeing him in person cause mind you they’ve never seen each others faces before, ultimately she decides it’s a good idea and meets up with him and gets completely rearranged…
So yeah if anyone remembers this fic I would greatly appreciate the link 🫡 like I’m so frustrated with myself that I forgot to save the link and the author of it because I think about it from time to time. Any and all help would be greatly appreciated <3
SUMMARY: You get stood up by your boyfriend on Valentine's Day. Thankfully, your best friend George is ready to give you the Valentine's you deserve.
CW: MDNI 18+, smut, hurt/comfort, cheating on shitty boyfriends, idiots to lovers, petty!George, dirty talk, oral, piv, dom!George, all the Valentine's fluff
AN: happy valentines day!!!! you all have my heart 🫶
masterlist
Your hurried footsteps echoed along the empty corridor, dampened by the screaming rain pouring from the thick blanket of clouds over the castle.
Fucking perfect, you thought, bitterly wiping tears and splattered rain from your cheeks. It was like the universe was taunting you.
Stood up by your boyfriend on Valentine's Day? Forced to walk back to Hogwarts in shame? Here, have some torrential downpour to really set the mood.
You still couldn't believe Jack stood you up. Left you looking like an idiot in the Three Broomsticks, alone and glowering into your fruity red drink, surrounded by pink streamers and heart balloons larger than your head. Completely humiliating.
Of all the shitty things he'd done to you over the last six months, this took the cake. And bizarrely, you felt like you deserved it for putting up with his bullshit for so long. You should have seen this coming from a mile away.
But you were too native, too stupid to see the red flags right under your nose. Well, that wasn't true. You saw them. You were just too scared to do anything about it.
Too scared to be alone. Too proud to admit you were wrong about him.
Merlin, George was going to be so fucking smug.
Your best friend, George Weasley, hated Jack. He hated Jack more than you'd ever seen him hate anyone. George had never had a problem with your past partners, albeit there was only two. But something about Jack brought out a side of George you’d never seen: vindictive, petty, mean.
Never directed towards you, of course, Jack and his friends bore the brunt of his wrath. It was enough that Jack steered clear of both George and his twin, who always matched his energy.
You knew George was just looking out for you, trying to protect you from, well, this. What you were feeling now. But you'd be damned if you gave him the satisfaction of being right.
Finally, the Fat Lady greeted you with a warm smile as you reached the top of the stairs. “Not out celebrating, lovey? Look at you, you're soaked!”
You sighed, looking down at your new dress, a babydoll in your favorite shade of pink, the fabric mottled with water and clinging to your skin. “Men suck*,*” you said.
The Fat Lady laughed. “They certainly do! What's the password, dear?”
You have it to her, and she swung open, a wadt of thumping music and the week of alcohol washed over you.
Shit. You'd completely forgotten about the Valentine's party tonight. While a drink sounded lovely, a drunken grind-fest was the last thing you wanted to participate in.
You pushed your way through the crowd, trying to make a beeline towards the girls dormitory. The crowd was thick, pushing and shoving, while music thumped loudly in your brain. Red hearts and cupids and streamers, were everywhere, a sheen of pink glitter starting to collect on your still-damp skin. Everywhere you looked, couples were all over each other, making out of dancing to the music, cuddled up on every available surface.
Tears burned behind your eyes again, and you tried pushing through with a little more force.
You popped out into a quieter area by the roaring fire, a circle of chairs occupied by the Quidditch team and a few others, which meant—
“Y/n?”
You looked up from your feet and locked eyes with George, who was hurriedly shifting a girl off his lap, ignoring her whine of protest while she grabbed at his white shirt.
The knife of hurt inexplicably twisted deeper in your gut, and you turned your back to him, pushing the other way through the crowd.
“Hey—wait!”
You made it to the stairs, but there was no outrunning those long legs—a lesson you'd learned countless times.
George snagged your wrist, turning you back towards him. “What happened?” The furrow between his brows deepened when he took in your tearful, soaked form. “Why are you wet? And where's the bilge-rat you call a boyfriend?”
You yanked your hand out of his hold. “Fuck if I know,” you snapped, trudging up the stairs, George on your heels.
“What do you mean? Didn't you have a date?” He asked, his tone getting angrier by the second.
You didn't respond, opening the door to your dorm and trying to slam it in George's face, but he caught it and pushed in behind you.
“Fuck, will you just tell me what happened? Are you okay?” He made an effort to soften his voice, catching your purse when you flung it at him.
“No, I'm not okay!” You cried, finally facing him, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Jack stood me up. He left me at the bar and—” emotion pinched your throat, cutting off your words.
You watched George cycle through the five stages of grief, frozen in the middle of the room. Then—
“Do you want me to find him?” He asked, voice a carefully measured calm.
“And do what?” You wiped at your cheeks, beyond frustrated. You couldn't decide if you wanted him to fuck off, or give you one of those big bears hugs he was so good at.
“Break his teeth in? Throw him in the lake? Set his hair on fire—”
“Stop it, George,” you muttered, sounding more defeated than angry.
He crossed the room to you, taking your trembling hands. “How can I fix it, love?” he asked, peering down at your pitiful, makeup smudged face.
You shook your head, avoiding his perceptive gaze. “Unless you have a time-turner to make me less of an idiot—”
“Hey.” George squeezed your hands, shaking you. “Don't talk about my girl that way. You did nothing wrong.”
You jerked your hands away, pushing past him and stalking over towards you vanity. “Please. You wanted me to leave him before we even got together. You made it abundantly clear how much you hated him.”
“Of course I did. He’s a prick—”
“So, clearly, you think I did something wrong by staying with him.” You angrily tugged your hair out of its style, wet strands tangled and getting frizzy, and started scrubbing off your makeup with a towelette. “Congratu-fucking-lations, you were right. You got what you wanted. Are you happy now?”
George looked like you'd struck him, hovering behind you in the mirror. You hated that he looked so handsome tonight in his white button down and dark wash jeans, his copper hair messy and flecked with glitter and heart-shaped confetti. It made it so much harder to be angry with him.
“You think this is what I wanted?” He asked. “The last thing I want is to see you hurting. Of course I'm not fucking happy that you're heartbroken. Even if it is over some limp-dick weasel.”
You scoffed, though you knew that was true, but it was easier to be angry right now. Easier to push him away than let him in.
George pressed on. “I'd like to hang him by the bollocks from the Whomping Willow for leaving you out in that storm, for all the shit he's done to you—”
“Just—go back to your party, George. I'm sure that doe-eyed girl is still waiting for you,” you hissed. It was a low blow, but you just wanted him gone so you could wallow in self-pity alone.
Suddenly, he was moving. His hands griped your waist, spinning your around and pressing you back into the vanity. His expression was severe. “Don't fucking do that,” he bit. “Don't act like I'm the bad guy when all I've wanted—” his voice caught in his throat, and he turned his head away, like he couldn't look at you.
His hands were burning through the thin fabric of your dress, his grip tight enough to ache, and you felt a long-suppressed heat kindle in your belly. George had manhandled you plenty of times: throwing you over his shoulder, dragging you by the hand through the halls, lifting you to retrieve a book from a high shelf. But this felt…different. Charged in a way you'd spent years trying to ignore for the sake of your friendship.
“What, George?” You asked, gripping the edge of the vanity so you didn't reach out to touch him.
He sighed. “When all I've wanted is to make you happy.” He looked at you again, his dark eyes filled with hurt and something warm, honeyed, that you refused to acknowledge.
Your anger crumbled into guilt. “I-I should have listened,” you croaked, tears rising once again. “I'm sorry, I—”
“No, no. None of that,” he shushed, bundling you into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I just feel so…so stupid,” you whimpered, crying into the safety of his chest, enveloped in the spiced, slightly sweet smell of his cologne.
“You aren't stupid, love. Far from it,” he soothed, hand smoothing up and down your spine. “This is on him, not you. You don't deserve to be treated like this.” He rocked you gently while you cried, cooing softly in your ear and keeping you grounded with his touch, until finally, your sobs ebbed to sniffles, and you drew a full, shaky breath. “There you go,” he said. “Take another one—that’s it. I've got you.”
“Thanks, Georgie,” you sniffled into his shirt.
“No need to thank me. I'm sorry that your Valentine's was ruined,” he murmured into your hair.
“I'm sorry yours was ruined too,” you mumbled, your fists tightening in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer, unwilling to part just yet.
“Ruined?” He chuckled. “Got my Valentine right here.” He squeezed you a little tighter, the air wheezing for your lungs until you laughed.
“Since when am I your Valentine?” You asked, pulling back to look up at him, a traitorous stab of affection making your heart skip. Shit, you should not be feeling these things for your best friend. It was just your hurt feelings, the holiday—nothing more.
“Since second year when I gave you that heart-shaped box of chocolates,” he said, pretending to be offended that you didn't remember.
“The one that exploded pink powder all over my face?”
George grimaced. “I forgot it did that…sorry, by the way.”
You smiled, pinching his freckled cheek. “You're forgiven.”
He grinned back, glancing down at your wet dress. “C’mon, get out of this wet cupcake and meet me in my dorm, I have something for you.”
“Cupcake?” You rolled your eyes, finally stepping out of his arms, though his hand lingered on your waist until you were fully out of arms reach. “It's a dress!”
“If you say so,” he teased, perusing your legs as you walked away. “I prefer your bunny pajamas, but—”
You chucked your shoe at him. “Fuck off, I'll see you in a second.”
He held his hands up in surrender and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.
What on earth could have have for you? Probably his usual box of chocolates, you mused as you peeled off the soggy fabric. Hopefully the non-explosive variety.
You riffled through your trunk, searching for something oversized and comfortable. But to your dismay, nearly everything large enough was your boyfriends, and you absolutely refused to wear something of him.
But at the very bottom of your trunk, something familiar caught your eye. You pulled it out, unveiling an old Quidditch hoodie, the letters faded and fabric soft from countless washes. George had lent it to you before a particularly cold match, and Gryffindor won in a landslide. It became a good luck charm of sorts, one you wore to every game there after.
But when you started dating Jack, he'd gotten pissed at you for wearing it, and you'd hidden it at the bottom of your trunk, never quite ready to give it back to George.
It smelled of green grass and open sky, and you tugged it over your head, letting it's warmth envelop you. Then, you put on a pair of sleep shorts and fuzzy socks, and padded out of the room towards George's, knocking twice before letting yourself in.
Fred and George were standing by the window, arguing in hushed voices, and straightened abruptly when you walked in.
“Hey, gorgeous!” Fred said, crossing the room and pulling you into a back-breaking hug. He reeked of beer. “How are we?”
“Peachy,” you replied tightly, glancing at George over Fred’s shoulder. He was scratching the back of his head, looking sheepish.
“Naughty girl, lying to me.” Fred winked, and you swatted his shoulder. “But don't worry, love. The boys are on it!”
“The boys? Wait—Fred!” But he was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You glared at George, and he held his hands up.
“They were worried about you!” He said defensively. “We care about you, y’know…” his voice trailed off when his eyes landed on your hoodie. “You still have that?”
Heat creeped up your neck. “’Course I do.”
“I thought shit-for-brains made you—”
“He tried,” you replied, tension coiling around the two of you once again.
A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “My good luck charm,” he chuckled, and your heart leapt into your throat.
“So, what do you have for me?” You asked, sitting on the edge of his bed like you always did. But something in his eyes flashed, making your lower belly heat.
What was going on with him?
He pushed himself from the wall and walked towards his trunk, just to the left of you. He rummaged around, withdrawing a pink gift bag with heart-covered tissue paper sticking out from the top.
“Oh, George…you didn't have to do this,” you said when he sat beside you.
“I wanted to.” He shrugged, setting the bag on your lap.
Heart pounding in your chest, you carefully removed the tissue paper, finding a pile of candy: chocolates and gummy lips and heart-shaped lollipops. There were also a few sachets of your favorite tea, pilfered from the kitchen, you imagined, and a copy of the book you'd been eyeballing your last trip to Hogsmeade with him and Fred.
Your heart was so full you feared it may burst. “Georgie, this is so sweet, thank you—”
“There's one more thing,” he said, gently taking the bag from you. He stuck his hand all the way to the bottom, and withdrew a small, pink-wrapped box with a ribbon tied around it.
The air was sucked from your lungs, ears ringing with shock as you gingerly took the box from him. He fidgeted beside you as you slowly unwrapped the paper, fingers trembling. The energy was taught around you, practically humming with tension.
A velvet box fell into your palm, the most gorgeous shade of burgundy with a delicate golden latch.
You almost didn't want to open it, terrified of what this meant, but so giddy you could sing. George, the poor guy, looked ready to burst out of his skin with impatience.
Carefully, you opened the lid. Inside was a gorgeous chain bracelet, the metal polished to perfection, with two charms resting against the velvet pillow. A tiny heart with your initial etched onto it, and a small fox, George's favorite mischievous, red-haired critter.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, tears pooling on your lower lashes. It was the most thoughtful gift you'd ever received. “George, I—”
“And you can get more charms, there's a shop in Hogsmeade with loads, books and birds and stars--”
You flung your arms around his neck, cutting off his nervous rambling. “I love it, Georgie, thank you,” you murmured into the crook of his neck.
He relaxed, his arms looping around your waist. “Of course,” he replied.
You pulled back, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, inspecting the little fox. It crossed your mind that if Jack saw this, he'd be livid, probably go so far as to threaten George, break off the precious little fox, and your smile fell.
“Hey, what happened?” George asked, shifting to kneel in front of you as you curled inward. “You don't like the fox?”
“No, no—” you tried to suppress the tears forcing their way up. “I love the fox. I just—”
George's expression hardened. “Jack won't like it,” he said, an edge to his voice. “You're not going to stay with him, are you?”
You shook your head. “No, I'm not. But we're technically still together—”
“That's bullshit,” George snarled, pushing to his feet and stalking away from you. “He fucking forfeited his right when he left you alone like that. You could have gotten hurt. He just fucking abandoned you and is probably off with some other bird—”
A sob broke free from your chest, and he halted his tirade, shoulders sagging.
“Do you want him?” George asked, crouching in front of you again.
You shook your head. “No, I don’t,” you admitted.
George reached out to cradle your face, catching your tears with his thumbs. His eyes were so sweet, so sincere, it made your teeth ache. “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words still felt like a punch through your chest.
Your mind was reeling. Of course, a part of you always wanted more with him, but… “I do, of course I do…but what if that ruins everything?” Your fingers curled into his shirt. “I don't want to lose you—”
“Never,” he said, shaking you so you met his eyes. “Never.”
“Relationships are different, though. What if we don't work like…that?”
His hands moved down to hold your neck, his touch gentle but insistent, your pulse thundering under his fingertips. “I’m still me, and you're still you. Are you going to look me in the eyes and tell me you haven't thought about it? That you haven't felt the pull?”
You don't reply, averting your eyes from his face.
“Not even when you're all alone, and Jack’s left you half-loved, tangled in your sheets…you don't think about me coming in there and taking care of you?”
Heat scorched your cheeks, your thighs clenching at the low purr of his voice, a pitch you hadn't heard before.
“Because I think about it all the time.”
You pussy throbbed and you gasped, shocked by the way your body was reacting to his words alone, your mind scrambling to keep up with this new reality you've stumbled into.
“Knowing I could treat you better, love you better—it keeps me up at night, baby. Imagining all the ways I could take care of you, make you happy, make you mine—”
Unable to stand it any longer, you yanked him forward and connected your mouth with his, cutting him off. He groaned, surging up to tackle you back onto his mattress, his lips hungry and rough against yours. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, his lips, his touch, his heat, burning you from the inside out.
No one has ever kissed you like that before, desperate, ravenous. With an eagerness that was palpable, his heart thundering against yours as he pressed impossibly closer to you.
He pried open your lips with his, his tongue plunging into your mouth with fervid strokes. One of his hands slid under your hoodie, caressing the bare skin of your hip and up your side, leaving tingles in the wake of his calloused palm. His other hand found the crook of your knee, lifting it up to hug his waist, opening your legs so he could press closer, harder…
“George!” You gasped when he rolled his hips against yours, the hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, your tiny shorts offering next to no barrier.
“Fuck, I've wanted to hear that for so long,” he panted, burying his face into your neck to kiss and lick at the sensitive skin. “Sound so pretty, baby.” He rolled his hips again, and your whole body arched closer to him, desperate for more as a weak whine spilled from your lips. The seam of his jeans caught your swelling clit just right, making your entire body hum with desire.
“Merlin’s fuck—what are you doing to me?” You keened, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, starving for the feel of his skin against yours.
“The bare minimum,” he teased, nipping at your earlobe. “You make it so easy to love you.” His hands squeezed at your flesh, his breath hot against your neck as he continued rocking your hips together. “So fucking sexy, so responsive. I knew you'd be perfect—” he grunted when you thrust your hips back up against him.
You finally managed to get his shirt off, pushing it over his shoulders and he tossed it onto the floor. The pale stretch of freckled skin on his chest made your mouth water, but you didn't get to admire him for long. He tugged your hoodie over your head, casting it across the room, and revealing the near see-through lacy red thing you'd selected for the evening and didn't bother changing out of.
A broken sound hissed through his teeth. Jealousy bloomed in his eyes, his jaw feathering with irritation.
You reached up to caress his cheek, drawing his eyes to your face. “He never got to see it,” you cooed, petting the hard line of his jaw and coaxing him to relax. “All yours now, yeah? No one else's.”
His eyes searched your face, anger melting into scalding desire. “Say it again,” he rasped.
“All yours,” you hummed, pecking his lips.
His hand spread across your collarbones, long fingers stretching nearly shoulder to shoulder, and he shoved you roughly back onto the bed. The next moment, his mouth was on your chest, hot and warm through the thin lace as he smeared open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue lashed one peaked nipple, drawing a cry from your lips as he sucked the bud and fabric between his teeth.
Your hands flew into his hair, tugging and guiding his mouth where you wanted him, and he went willingly, eager for any and all contact, quick to repeat the tricks that made your breath hitch.
His hand slid down your stomach, beneath he waist band of your shorts, and he dragged his middle finger through your dripping slit, a high-pitched moaning making him smile against your chest.
“Merlin, you're soaked,” he purred, kissing up your neck and capturing your lips in a messy, top-lip kiss. His finger swirled around your puffy clit, applying just enough pressure to have pleasure radiating through your body. “You get this wet for him, baby?” He whispered, dipping his fingertips into your entrance, once, twice, before sinking down to the knuckle. “Little cunt sucking me right in. She was ready for me, hm?”
“G-George,” his name was a fractured whimper on your tongue, your mind going fuzzy when he curled his finger up, hitting a spot that you'd never felt before.
“Oh, you poor thing,” George cooed, adding a second finger and stroking the same spot again, your whole body hitching up the bed at the intensity of it. But his body weight held you down, his mouth painting gentle kisses along your skin to try and soothe you. “He never touch you like this? Never found that spot—fuck, right there, baby? That's it?”
You bobbled your head like an idiot, grinding your hips back into his hand as he started fucking his fingers into you more deliberately, the lewd, gooey smack of your pussy filling the dorm.
“Good girl,” he praised, propping himself up to peer down at you, eyes blown wide with lust as he took in your trembling, sweat-kissed skin. “How did I get so fucking lucky?” He asked, leaning down to kiss you again, all softness and affection, so different than the relentless way he was dominating your cunt.
You pawed at his jeans, tugging at his belt. “Mmph, please—need you,” you whined against his mouth, and he groaned.
“Fuck, you're killing me, love,” he grated, his hips bucking into your hand. “You want my cock that bad?”
You nodded, still struggling with his belt.
He pushed off of you and undid his belt, removing his jeans and shoes in record time, his flushed cock slapping up against his stomach. He grabbed you by the ankle and tugged you to the edge of the bed.
“You've got a slutty little thong under here, don't you?” He asked, toying with the waistband of your shorts.
“Maybe,” you said, half-distracted by his cock jumping at the sound of your voice, the tip slick with precum.
He glanced down, following your gaze, and chuckled. “My eyes are up here, pretty girl,” he chastised with a light slap to your inner thigh. He pushed your shorts down your legs, followed by the red thong your wore underneath. He tossed the thong onto his bedside table, instead of the floor with the rest of the clothes.
You raised an eyebrow at him, about to make some teasing remark, when he dragged his cockhead through your messy slit, and all thoughts tumbled right out of your brain, dripping from between your legs.
“For later, yeah?” He said, smirking when your eyes rolled back when he tapped your clit with the head. “So next time I see that fucker, I can show him exactly what he lost.”
“George—” you started to chastise him for being cruel when he notched at your entrance, sinking halfway into your willing pussy, and you both cried out. The fullness, the stretch, was mind-melting. Better than anything you'd felt in your life.
George braced his hand beside your head, sagging forward as he hissed a curse under his breath. “Fucking shit, love,” he panted, his muscles locked up so tight he was practically vibrating. “M'done for if you keep squeezin’ me like that.”
You moaned, lifting your hips to take him a little deeper, needing more even though you felt like he was ripping you apart at the seams. “Please, Georgie,” you whimpered, clawing at his skin. “Want all of you.”
“I know, honey. I know. Just give me a second.” He leaned further down, peppering kisses across your cheeks and jaw. “Don't wanna hurt you, gotta relax f’me.”
You took a few breaths, trying to get your muscles to relax as his lips moved over your fevered skin. You felt him slide a bit deeper, the stretch not quite as intense.
“Good girl, that's it. Just a little further,” he praised, his hand gripping the flesh of your hip as he started rocking into you, slow, rolling thrusts that got incrementally longer each time, until his pelvis met yours and you were a moaning mess, writhing beneath him, desperate for more.
George straightened, his hand on the bed shifting to your shoulder, and he snapped his hips forward, forcing a cry from your lips as pleasure struck you like lightning. He set a rough pace, fucking you deep and hard, his grip on your body keeping you locked in place.
You were lost in it, helpless to the pitch and roll of his ocean, completely adrift in the pleasure he was pulling from your body. You tried to fuck back against him, but your body refused to cooperate, dumb and boneless and cockdrunk.
“So fucking pretty like this. Tell me how pretty you are, baby,” he said, his hand leaving your hip to rub tight circles over your clit.
“Mmph—fuck, so pretty,” you managed, voice throttled with lust and desperation.
“Yeah, you are.” He grinned. “My pretty girl takin’ this cock so well. He fuck you like this? Have you a drooling mess for him?”
You shook your head, nails biting into his thighs as your release prowled closer, coiling tight in your belly. “No, never,” you keened, when ratcheted up the pace sensing your looming orgasm.
“That's right, all mine. Who does this pussy belong to? Who has your heart?”
“You, you! Fuck, George, I’m—”
“Go on, love. Come for me, I'm right there with you. Come on.” His thrusts grew rougher and sloppier as his own release approached, and with a final, punishing snap of his hips, you both went flying over the edge and into white hot bliss.
You screamed and he caught the sound with a kiss, fucked you through it as your pussy clamped around him. Wringing every bit of pleasure from you both until he sagged forward, his head falling into the crook of your neck as you both gasped for breath.
He kissed along the damp column of your throat, making his way to your lips, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your trembling thighs. “Did so good,” he murmured between lazy pecks. “I'm proud of you.”
You giggled, feeling almost giddy to have George in your arms, kissing you and praising you so sweetly. “That was amazing,” you breathed, and he smiled, giving one last thrust before withdrawing and using magic to clean you both up.
“You were amazing,” he corrected. “Like I said, you're easy to love.”
Butterflies rioted in your stomach. “So are you.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before handing you your hoodie and shorts. You both got semi-dressed and snuggled into his bed, his bare chest under your ear, heart thumping steadily.
You grabbed the gift bag and took out the bracelet. “Will you put it on me?”
“Of course,” he beamed, carefully taking the the jewelry and clasping it around your wrist, kissing the tender skin of your pulse before releasing you. “Looks perfect on you,” he said, looking down at your smiling face as you turned your wrist this way and that.
“I love it, Georgie. Thank you.” You snuggled closer into his side.
“Always.” He dropped a kiss on top of your head, then grabbed the gift back from you, pulling out a handful of candy and popping one of the lollipops into his mouth. “Not as sweet as your pussy, but…”
You rolled your eyes and placed a chocolate truffle on your tongue, letting the deliciousness fill your mouth.
Bang! There was a fumbling outside of the door and George quickly yanked the curtain shut, just before what sounded like several people came tumbling into the room.
“Get the fuck off of me, Weasley—” Jack.
“Absolutely not, you're going to apologize,” Fred replied, his voice a little too chipper for the current situation.
George was up in a blink, his chest littered with the marks you gave you him, and pushed through the curtain. “Well, well. Seems you aren't dead, or maimed…so what exactly is your excuse for standing up my girl on Valentine's Day?” George asked.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you, I—your girl?” Jack hissed. “She's mine.”
George chuckled. “Love, would you like to come out here and set the record straight?”
“What?” Jack barked. “She's not here—”
You slipped out of bed and tried to right yourself before stepping out of the curtain and into the room. Fred and Lee had Jack by arms, dressed only in his boxers. Harry and Ron stood off to the side, watching everything unfold with mild amusement.
George was leaning against the bed frame, lollipop in his cheek, a triumphant smirk on his face.
“We're done, Jack,” you said, getting it over with. But strangely, you didn't feel any of the guilt from before. And you shouldn't. Jack was a prick, and didn't deserve your tears or empathy.
“I miss one date and you shack up with fucking Weasley?” Jack spit, and George's eyes darkened. “Fucking whore—”
Fred and Lee shook him roughly, yelling at him to watch his mouth, and you recoiled a bit. George seemed to stay surprisingly calm, until you saw him reach from his Beater bat beside the bed.
“George, wait—”
George jabbed the tip of the bat into Jack's sternum, and the boy went pale. “If I hear you running your fucking mouth about her again, I will smash your jaw to splinters. Clear?”
Your heart lost its rhythm. You'd never seen George like this, and you loved it. Loved being his.
Jack bobbed his head yes, trembling in Fred and Lee's hold.
Lee snickered. “Prick looks like he might piss himself.”
“Now get the fuck out,” George ordered.
“Wait, one more thing,” you said, and the boys all turned their attention to you. You sauntered up to Jack, and you saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.
Fucking idiot.
You thrust your knee up, nailing him right in the bollocks, and he howled so loud the other boys dropped him into a heap on the floor.
“Fuck you,” you spit, turning on your heel and stepping into George's open arms.
“That's my girl,” George cooed, taking the lollipop of his mouth to kiss you properly, the strawberry flavor sweet on his tongue. He waved at the others over your head as he deepened the kiss, and you heard them all file out, laughing and jeering as they dragged Jack behind them, the door swinging shut and locking.
“He deserved it,” you mumbled between kisses, giggling when George lifted you into the air, your legs wrapping around his waist.
“And now it's time you get what you deserve,” he smirked, laying you back down on the mattress and shifting down between your legs. “And I get my reward for absolutely crushing Valentine's Day.”
You burst out laughing, the sound shifting to moan as he licked a stripe through your slit. “You're right, best Valentine's Day ever.”
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